Temptation
by Finding Beauty
Summary: The opening night of Spectacular Spectacular, one moment changes everything, and Christian and Satine face the trials of starting anew, only to find even love has its own obstacles to overcome. First in a trilogy, spans 1899-1901.
1. Tempt Not a Desperate Man

**Temptation**

  
  


**Author's Note**: Finally, I make my return to the world of _Moulin Rouge_ fanfiction. I have as of late been busy delving into _Harry Potter_ (with _The Dark Side of the Moon_, a Lupin-centric vignette—and yes, that _was_ a shameless plug), but of course I can't stay away from the beloved Red Windmill for long. As always, this story is dedicated to my penniless writer (_. . . sing out this song and I'll be there by your side_), along with Anna, drama-princess, She's a Star, Greta, Theia-Eos, karadarlin, Lily Bird, Spyre, chesire-catt, Mystery, Angie, Diamond Cat, The Great Kara, Nat, Peachy, Marauder, and Francesca Wayland, for reading and reviewing _Daughter of the Underworld_. You guys are truly and utterly inspiring.  
  
Also, on a random side note, plaid shirts and striped pants rarely make a positive fashion statement, according to the little dog office assistant in Microsoft Word. I'd also like to dedicate this to the little dog, whom I have named Bob. I do, however, wish he would stop winking at me. It is most distracting.  
  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Moulin Rouge_ or its characters (those characters being any you actually recognize); they all belong to the respective individuals responsible for creating them, and those who happen to own the rights. Chapter title is credited to William Shakespeare, a line from the play _Romeo and Juliet_. No copyright infringement is intended, and due credit will be given throughout the story for any songs that may be used.  
  
  
  


**Chapter I**  
_Tempt Not a Desperate Man_

  
  
  


_"Tell me the truth, tell me the truth!"  
  
"The truth? The truth is . . . I am the Hindu courtesan . . . and I choose the maharajah."_  
  
The scene kept replaying itself in Christian's mind, over and over, threatening to drive him to insanity, a malady he was already standing upon the brink of, heartbroken and torn. His heart told him Satine loved him, that everything had been real—how could it have been a lie? Everything flickered past like a faulty film reel, and when he closed his eyes to make it go away, the images only seared themselves to his eyelids; a flash of brilliant silken red hair, a soft-spoken declaration of love whispered with warm breath against his ear, a gentle caress of her hand against his cheek.  
  
Then she had sent him away; she had ended it all. There was no more a real life mirror of the Hindu courtesan's affair with her penniless sitar player, no more come what may, no more dreams of flying away from it all, of being together . . .  
  
Love was like oxygen, and Christian was suffocating.  
  
Giving a stifled whimper, unable to even summon the ability to cry anymore, Christian curled up shivering, still feeling utterly chilled despite the warm woolen confines of the blanket the Bohemians had wrapped him in after dragging him in off the street. What a fool he must have looked, standing outside the Moulin Rouge, screaming her name to no one but the rain and the cold, unsympathetic turning of the red windmill wings.  
  
The thumping of uneven steps against the bare planks of the floor was the only reminder he had that he was not alone in the room. Toulouse moved into Christian's field of vision, hands perched atop his cane, his expression one of heartfelt concern as he gazed at his stricken friend. "Things are not always the way they seem."  
  
"Things are exactly the way they seem," Christian bit back dully. The motion of speech made the cut on the side of his face sting, but the pain was almost welcome—a physical distraction from the building numbness inside him.  
  
"Christian," the dwarf-like man pressed on, "you may see me only as a drunken, vice-ridden gnome whose friends are just pimps and girls from the brothels." He smiled weakly at his own self-deprecating description, then his face went into a serious set again, and he pressed on earnestly, "But I know about art and love, if only because I long for it with every fiber of my being."  
  
He paused, leaning in as if he were about to drop a great epiphany upon the young writer, though he did not see it as any less than the obvious. "She loves you. I know she loves you."  
  
Christian first looked as if he would remain unresponsive, then finally he stirred to speak. "Go away, Toulouse. Leave me alone. Go away."  
  
Toulouse stared at him doubtfully, but reluctantly complied and moved to the door to gather his hat and coat.  
  
He didn't move fast enough, however, for Christian raised his voice—a rare occasion for the normally quiet and thoughtful man. "_Go away_!"  
  
Casting one last, saddened look at his friend, Toulouse backed out of the door, closing it softly behind him.  
  
Christian didn't turn to watch Toulouse go; he simply remained staring at the wall opposite the small bed—the bed he and Satine had shared together—looking at but not truly seeing the flaking plaster of the walls, the faded and peeling paper that was nearly covered by pages of various drafts of the script that had been tacked up there during happier times. Happier times, when he was living a dream, and she was his muse.  
  
How could it have all been a lie?  
  
How could she have chosen the Duke?  
  
Christian had offered his heart and soul freely . . . to a woman who was not able to do so in return.  
  
_"She loves you. I know she loves you."_  
  
He shook his head slowly, denying Toulouse's words. He wanted to shut it all out; he wanted to drown all his sorrow and all his grief in Absinthe, until he felt nothing at all anymore . . .  
  
_"I can't do this, Christian. It's too hard."  
  
"Sure you can, just keep trying. Don't give up."_  
  
The remnants of a long ago conversation with his younger sister echoed in his mind. _Don't give up_.  
  
Satine's love was the one thing that had given him strength—yet at the same time it was his worst insecurity.  
  
_"I know she loves you."  
  
"Don't give up."_  
  
Frustrated, Christian covered his ears with his hands, shaking his head as if he could get rid of the words. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and it was blossoming until he could ignore the possibility no longer.  
  
He had to know.  
  
  
  
In better times, it would have been a pain for Christian to do such a thing, but when he pawned his much beloved Underwood typewriter, he simply shoved the handful of francs into the pocket of his threadbare jacket, and spared the machine not a passing glance was it was left displayed in the pawn shop's window, a lonely instrument without anyone to master its artful design.  
  
Insecurity and doubt twisted his stomach into knots as he walked to the Moulin Rouge, its stately sails turning silently in the winter wind, fevered breath escaping his mouth in frosted clouds. A vengeful side uncommon to the young writer had emerged, clawing its way to the surface in a jealous rage, and within his pocket his fingers curled tightly around the rumpled bills, closing them into his fist so tightly the ink might have bled out in protest.  
  
A part of him wanted to tell her she had meant nothing to him, that she really was no more than a courtesan, a whore. He wanted to throw that money at her feet and then curse her for ever entering his life and making him believe she loved him. He wanted to hurt her as badly as she had hurt him.  
  
Yet, there beneath the need for vengeance, beneath the smoldering jealousy and anger, there was a spark of _hope_, a part of him that wanted her to come running back to him and tell him that it hadn't meant a thing, that there was some logical explanation why she would say such hurtful things. He wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be all right; that he would take her away from there and they would start their life together anew.  
  
Sucking in a breath of the chilled air, allowing it to numb his ability to feel as much as it would, Christian slipped through the crowd of aristocrats that had shown up for the grand premiere of _Spectacular Spectacular_, easily going unnoticed . . . because who, of course, would notice a shabby, penniless writer among the throng of rich and beautiful people?  
  
  
  
It was a simple enough matter to sneak in—everyone was distracted by preparation for the show, from the lowest-paid stage hand to Zidler himself. Dodging through backstage, certain to keep himself out of sight, Christian crept carefully but steadily in the direction of Satine's dressing room, the one that had been bought for her by the Duke. Just another reminder of what the man could give her that he, the penniless writer could not.  
  
Punishing himself with the stinging thoughts, but still unable to stop thinking them, he continued to press past the pieces of the set and hanging costumes that littered the entire backstage area, until finally he reached the door of Satine's dressing room, which was left carelessly open.  
  
Sometime during the journey there, the money had found its way out of his pocket and into his hand, and he leaned there against the doorway, breathing lowly.  
  
"I've come to pay my bill."  
  
Clearly startled, Satine whirled around to face him, eyes widening momentarily—then her face set back into a pale mask of composure again, gaze hardening. "You shouldn't be here, Christian. Just leave."  
  
She moved to push past him, but Christian blocked her way out of the dressing room, then pressed his way inside. Satine backed away, watching him warily, and with a look of increasing anxiety filling her eyes. Panic?  
  
"You made me believe that you loved me . . . why shouldn't I pay you?"  
  
"Please, Christian . . ." Her tone had softened, and she gazed at him with an expression he would have seen as _pleading_, had he not been distracted by his own anguish.  
  
"You did your job so very, very well!" he cried, and the door slammed shut with a reverberating bang that made Satine jump, startled.  
  
Christian, however, was barely fazed; he simply advanced toward her, waving the handful of francs in a frenzied manner. "Why can't I pay you like everyone else does?"  
  
"Please, Christian—just leave."  
  
Satine tried to move past him again, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her, demanding, "Tell me it wasn't real!"  
  
She shook her head, looking away from him. Her breathing was coming now in labored gasps, and she could hear footsteps coming toward the door.  
  
"Satine, it's time to get on the stage!" Marie called into the dressing room. For a lingering moment, both within thought the woman would enter, but her footsteps quickly enough faded away as she was distracted by another of the performers.  
  
"Tell me it wasn't real!" he cried again. "Tell me you don't love me! Tell me the truth!"  
  
"_I'm dying, Christian_!" she screamed out at him, without thought of what she was saying.  
  
The words seemed to freeze everything in time.  
  
Christian stood in gaping silence, as if he had been slapped, and Satine wrested herself out of his grasp, stumbling backward a few steps. She regained her balance and stared at him, tears running down her cheeks.  
  
"I'm dying."


	2. A Word and a Blow

**Chapter II**  
_A Word and a Blow_

  
  
  


_"I'm dying."_  
  
The whispered words hung in the air between them like a curse, the only sound that of Satine's labored breathing, and the soft fluttering of the crumpled bills as they fell from Christian's hand and dropped scattered to the dressing room floor like dead rose petals.  
  
Christian swayed for a moment of suspended time, as if drunken, then finally reached out to steady himself on the corner of Satine's dressing table. Stumbling haltingly into motion toward her, he reached out to touch her, but hesitated, his hand lingering short of her arm. Confusion flooded through him in a guilty tide, mingled with a growing sensation of fear.  
  
"And the Duke is going to kill you, too," Satine gasped out, the sudden reminder of this motivating her into closing the distance between them. Taking hold of his sleeve, she steered him in the direction of the door in panicked motion. "You have to leave, Christian, before they find you here. _Please_."  
  
"What . . . Satine . . ."  
  
Nearly choking on his words, Christian swallowed hard, remaining rooted to the spot as helpless as a child, despite all her insistence he leave.  
  
"Why . . ."  
  
"There's no time. You have to go."  
  
"_No_, Satine," he protested, pulling her back toward him. "What's going on? I'm not leaving—not without you. Tell me what's wrong."  
  
"The Duke, the Duke threatened to kill you, unless we changed the ending, and—and I agreed to sleep with him tonight. That's why you have to leave, if they find you here they'll kill you," she spilled out hastily in return, then urgently fell in step for the door again.  
  
But again, Christian wouldn't be moved. "Then what you said . . . about not . . . not loving me . . ."  
  
Satine paused, drawing in a slow breath. "It wasn't true. I love you, Christian. I will _always_ love you—"  
  
"Why, why didn't you just tell me the truth?" he asked, seeming utterly oblivious of her fear for him, brows knitting together in confusion.  
  
"I did it to save your _life_," she responded, staring at him as if he were crazy, for being unable to comprehend her reasoning.  
  
"But a life without you—a life without love—that wouldn't be living at all," he insisted, shaking his head slowly. His heart soared—she _did_ love him!—but at the same time an entirely different sensation gnawed at his insides. "We could have overcome it, Satine."  
  
He paused, resolution hardening. "And we still can. We can leave, leave now—"  
  
"No, Christian . . ." She slumped back from him, momentarily defeated. "It's over. I'm dying . . . it's consumption."  
  
Almost as if proof of the illness needed to manifest itself at that moment, Satine was pressed by a wracking cough, and doubled over, breath coming in shallow gasps.  
  
"No, _no_, Satine . . ." Feeling a surge of panic, Christian moved to take her into his arms, tears beginning to well in his eyes. The coughing, the shortness of breath after dance routines, the frequent fainting spells—why hadn't he noticed before? How could he have been so blind? "You can't just give up like this. I need you . . . I-I can't go on without you."  
  
Now within the comfort of the circle of his arms, Satine slumped against Christian, the coughs gradually tapering off, and she drew the back of her hand across her lips, bringing it away to show red smeared against ivory skin.  
  
_Blood_.  
  
Heart thumping madly in his chest, Christian shook his head in denial of the weakening figure held snugly to him; Satine suddenly seemed so delicate, so fragile, as if she were an exotic and rare flower that might simply wilt away. "No, no . . . we'll leave, we'll find a doctor . . . find someone to help. You have to hold on, just hold on . . . everything will be all right, it will. We love each other, and that's all that matters. Come what may."  
  
Satine hesitated, drawing in several shallow breaths in an attempt to muster a response. Finally finding the effort of such a simple thing to be too much, she gave in to a slow nod, allowing hope—albeit how skeptical—to build within her for the first time since her escape from the Gothic Tower the night before. How could she have doubted Christian, and the power of their love for each other?  
  
Yet at the same time, her own fragility threatened to defeat her.  
  
"I'm sorry, Christian," she whispered.  
  
"Don't, Satine, don't talk, just . . . sit down, here, and I'll—" Settling her down at her dressing table, Christian whirled around and searched the room madly, his mind a confused jumble of thoughts. How would they get out with all the people? The Duke no doubt had people watching for him, if what Satine said was true—and he knew it was. And they weren't exactly going to let the star waltz out of the theatre in the middle of the show—  
  
"Satine? You need to get on the stage!"  
  
The door flung open suddenly, startling both of them, and they stood frozen as Marie burst into the room, her eyes wide as she first laid eyes on Christian, then Satine, who was clearly ailing. Her wizened features quickly took in the situation with an appropriate assessment, then she did something rather unexpected to both of them—closed the door behind herself, and locked it.  
  
"I wondered when you'd finally fly away from here," she murmured, seeming to be talking to herself more so than she was Satine. "You'll need your bag," she went on, moving over to pull out the bag Satine had left half-packed that morning, and began to hastily load clothing and belongings into it.  
  
"Get her jewel chest, you'll need those to get by out there," Marie instructed Christian, giving a slight nod. "And you'd best hurry; someone else will come looking when I'm not back."  
  
Christian began to sweep things off the dressing counter, loading them into the bag. He didn't question the woman, simply accepted her help. They needed an ally in this situation, however unlikely of one she happened to be.  
  
"Marie—" Satine began, but she was interrupted by the older woman.  
  
"Don't, girl. I'm doing this of my own free will, and I'll not take no for an answer."  
  
"Thank you," she finished weakly instead.  
  
"There's nothing to thank me for. If anything, I should be ashamed I haven't put a stop to Harold's doings before now." Grave of countenance, she surveyed the contents of the bag one more time, then fastened it shut and handed it roughly toward Christian. As he glanced toward her, he could have sworn he saw a tear in her eye, but she was obviously attempting to hide the emotion by her brisk treatment of them both.  
  
"Come on, now," Marie instructed Satine, grabbing a winter coat off the rack for her and helping her to shrug it on. "You'll need something to cover that hair; it's a dead giveaway."  
  
But Satine wasn't paying attention; instead, she was reaching under the collar of the coat to unfasten the heavy diamond choker. Feeling the cold weight of the gems in her hands, she gave it only momentary consideration before throwing it harshly onto the dressing table, where it collided with bottles of perfume and jars of makeup. She and Christian would have been able to live comfortably for the rest of their lives off the money that alone could garner, but she would never feel herself out from under the shadow of the Duke.  
  
Marie grabbed up a black scarf in the meantime, then moved over to tie it over Satine's hair, knotting it beneath her chin. She stared up at the younger woman for a moment, offering a weak smile. "You go on and get out of here, now. Fly away from here, Satine, like you always wanted to."  
  
Like they'd all wanted to. Though few would admit it, most clung to that very same dream long after it turned to dust . . . and none before had ever managed to fulfill it, not until now.  
  
"Thank you, Marie—for everything." Satine reached out and embraced the woman quickly, then Marie moved to open the dressing room door a bit and check outside for any sign of the Duke, his manservant, or Harold. By now, someone had to have come looking, yet there was no one to be seen . . . it seemed almost too perfect, but she wouldn't allow that thought to cloud her mind now.  
  
"It's clear. Go, both of you."  
  
As the two lovers ducked out the door, Satine spared a glance back at Marie, seeing there not the woman who had always served as costumer and adviser to the girls, but the shadow of a woman who had shared the very same hopes and dreams, once upon a time . . .

  
  
  


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**Disclaimer**: Chapter title once again credit to William Shakespeare, from _Romeo and Juliet_. Also credit to Brad for help with Christian's reactions when Satine explained her reasoning.


	3. For Stony Limits Cannot Hold Love Out

**Chapter III**  
_For Stony Limits Cannot Hold Love Out_

  
  


Breathing had been a difficult task for Satine for some time—yet now that she was conscious of her problem, a great deal of the effort it took to draw in a breath and exhale it again was simply psychological. It also was not a help at all that she kept unintentionally holding her breath, expecting at any moment as she and Christian wound their way around backstage, to run into someone who was going to give them away. Thus far, however, such a thing had not occurred.  
  
"You, there!"  
  
Until now.  
  
The two froze in their tracks, considering making a break for it anyway—but came to the quick conclusion that that was only going to make them more suspicious. Christian turned slowly to face the young stage hand that had called out to them, a dumbfounded expression on his face.  
  
"Have you seen Miss Satine anywhere? It seems she's missing—the show's writer has gone mad and kidnapped her!"  
  
Christian stared, speechless.  
  
Satine recovered first, and quickly turned her gaze toward the floor, so that the stage hand wouldn't recognize her face. She didn't recall ever having seen him before, however, so her best guess was that he was one of the many workers that had been hired just in time for opening night. Thinking quickly, she reached out and grabbed Christian's arm, jerking it out to the side rather sharply.  
  
This seemed to jar him back into reality, and satisfied with this, Satine busied herself appearing as if she were taking measurements to alter the garment (it was convenient that they had been stopped in an area backstage where the costumes were stored).  
  
"Ah, no, I-I haven't seen her—him—them—anywhere. But I'll let you know if I do!" Christian blurted out. Thankfully, the boy was distracted enough not to realize how suspicious the situation was—it was particularly fortunate that he'd failed to notice the rather sizeable piece of luggage Christian was carrying—and gave a hasty nod before setting off at a jogging pace away from them again.  
  
Christian blinked, glancing at Satine in relief, though his brow was knit in a bit of confusion. "Mad writer?"  
  
"It figures that they would try to explain it away like that," she responded with a slight shake of her head, then clutched at Christian's arm again and resumed their frenetic pace.  
  
Despite waning strength, she led the way, as she knew entirely more about all the infamous nightclub's secret twists and turns than Christian could ever hope to. When they finally burst out a side door usually reserved for the entrance and exit of the girls when they got back from their night's work, she gasped and leaned heavily onto Christian, who was left to shift his burden around so that he could support her more easily.  
  
"Come on, it's just a bit further, Satine . . . you need to hang on."  
  
Nodding in response, Satine inhaled raggedly and fell back into step alongside Christian, allowing herself to grasp his arm for support. It was somewhat difficult to make such an escape in a full costume, with high heeled shoes, but she had spent years perfecting the art of doing high kicks in a corset and dancing in slippery shoes, so this should have been simple. Unfortunately, the pavement was slick with the day's frozen rain, and to make matters worse, gloomy black clouds filled the sky, nearly blocking out the moon—a portent of snow.  
  
The first flakes fell upon the lovers as they stole away down the street that ran in front of the nightclub, not daring risk to call for a carriage until they were a block away. There was no way, they knew, to return to Christian's garret—that would be the first place the Duke would send anyone to look for them, after everyone realized they were no longer at the Moulin Rouge.  
  
Christian helped Satine up into the carriage, then dropped down beside her, running a hand tiredly through his hair. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but his love for the woman beside him drove him on. They were going to make it after all—only an hour before, if even that long, such a thing seemed impossible—  
  
Then Satine coughed, soon doubling over with the wracking struggle for breath, and it brought a searing reminder to the young writer that it still wasn't over.  
  
"A-are you all right?" he asked tentatively, though it seemed an inappropriate question for the moment.  
  
Satine nodded slightly, the coughs gradually tapering away. She felt through her pockets and retrieved a handkerchief, then brought it to her mouth, holding it expectantly at the ready for its next use.  
  
The driver was still gazing expectantly at the two; the carriage was in idle motion, without any directions having been given as to a destination, but he allowed them this moment with kindly concern in his eyes, simply waiting for one of the two passengers to remember they hadn't told him where he was supposed to be going.  
  
Finally, Christian looked up at the man decisively. "She needs to see a doctor—I don't care who, just wherever's closest."  
  
  
  
Two hours later, as Christian sat upon a soft bed, tucked beneath the warm comforts of a quilt sewn with loving care, his arms wrapped tenderly around Satine, he closed his eyes and leaned down to rest his chin against the top of her head. Everything seemed _right_, now, and while he might've once marveled at such a feeling, now he had no question about it in his mind. Love did strange and powerful things to people. It could give you the greatest happiness you had ever known . . . or bring you the worst pain.  
  
But all that was past them now, he resolved. What mattered was that they loved one another.  
  
Satine rested against Christian, in a position that allowed her to hear his heart beating, relishing in the feeling of his chest rising and falling with the animation of life. Her own breath seemed to come easier now, and though she felt tired and ready to doze off, she still reclined there awake, absently stroking the curves of Christian's hand where it rested against her lap. A poet's hands, meant not to hold anything more cumbersome than a quill, fingers intended for shy caresses, their tips stained a faded black from ink where he had been so consumed in his writing.  
  
The doctor that the driver had taken them to was the man's own brother; he'd informed them that it would be a slightly longer drive, but they would find no better physician at that hour, and Satine had to think he had not been boastful about it. The doctor had done everything in his power to make her comfortable, down to his wife insisting the two young people could not possibly go back out and brave the cold and snow.  
  
Thus, they had ended up in the guest bedroom of where the doctor, his wife, and their two grandchildren, Sophie and Philippe lived, in a quiet part of Paris that was further outside Montmartre than Satine or Christian even realized.  
  
When Christian had tentatively brought up the subject of payment, the doctor had simply informed him that it could wait until later, and ordered Satine to get plenty of rest. He refused to comment one way or the other upon her condition, simply noting that time would tell them everything they needed to know. While not entirely comforted by this response, neither were they any more troubled than before. Some hope was better than none at all.  
  
Stirring, Satine gave a thoughtful glance upward to Christian, then exhaled a slow sigh and further settled herself into his embrace, simply indulging in the comfort there. They were safe—for now, at least—as there was little chance anyone could find them here. Already they seemed a million miles away from where they came, and while the troubling thought threatened to plague her mind that they had escaped Montmartre entirely too easily, Satine decided not to dwell on it just yet, and simply take things one at a time instead.  
  
Her hand reached upward to cover his heart, and despite the fact the doctor had advised that she avoid too much speech for exertion of herself, she began to sing nonetheless, voice carrying softly up to Christian's ears.  
  
"_What is that sound  
Ringing in my ears?  
The sound of two hearts  
Beating side by side.  
The sound of one love  
That neither one can hide . . ._"  
  
Christian had begun to insist she conserve her strength, but after a thoughtful moment his voice joined hers.  
  
"_What is that sound  
Running 'round my head?  
Funny, I thought  
That part was long since dead.  
But now there's new life  
Coursing through my veins,  
Because there's someone  
To make it beat again . . ._"  
  
Trailing off, they fell into companionable silence, Satine yawning faintly, though after a time she spoke again.  
  
"We can sell some of my jewelry to pay Dr. Dieudonné. It was a good thing Marie thought to pack them . . ."  
  
"Mm," Christian responded in drowsy reverie.  
  
There was a moment of companionable silence between them, then Satine spoke up again.  
  
"Christian?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Where did you get the money?"  
  
Christian opened his mouth to ask 'what money?' then promptly closed it again, giving a wince. Since the doors of the Moulin Rouge had closed behind them, he hadn't thought in too much detail about the events that had transpired only hours earlier. It was so much simpler to accept the fact that they had made it out, and that he and Satine were here together. But her question brought him back to harsh reality, and he inhaled tentatively.  
  
"My typewriter."  
  
Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, and though it seemed like little to him at the moment, in comparison to everything else, Christian felt Satine stiffen in his embrace.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I pawned my typewriter."  
  
Satine frowned, then twisted around to look up at Christian with a furrowed brow. "Oh, Christian . . ."  
  
To anyone else, it might have seemed insignificant for her to worry about a typewriter, but she knew what that Underwood meant to Christian—he'd carried it with him all the way from London. In fact, it had been the only thing of any real material value that he had brought along, and that would explain why it had been pawned, but Satine knew that it had more sentimental value for him than the cash it could ever bring.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Satine," he said quietly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "It doesn't matter."  
  
"It does," she countered, turning back to resume their previous position. "You must go back and get it tomorrow . . . when you go to pawn the jewelry, get it back," she insisted drowsily, pulling the covers on the bed more snugly about them.  
  
"I will," Christian responded.  
  
"Promise?" she questioned sleepily, shifting to snuggle against his chest. The medicine the doctor had given her was clearly taking effect now, but even still she didn't want to go to sleep with the thought of him having given up something so special because of what she had done.  
  
He gave a gentle smile. Satine still never ceased to amaze him, even though he felt himself to know her better than anyone else could claim.  
  
"I promise."  
  
"I love you, Christian."  
  
"I love you, too."

  
  
As Satine drifted off in his arms, Christian leaned back against the headboard, and closed his own eyes.  
  
"_Sleep to sleep, sigh on sigh,  
On a lover's lullaby.  
This could be Heaven,  
Right here on Earth . . ._"  
  
  


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**Author's Note**: Chapter title credit to William Shakespeare, from _Romeo and Juliet_. Lyrics are from Lamb's "What Sound," then "This Could Be Heaven," also by Lamb. I ended this chapter on a happy note, because I felt like a bit of fluff. However, nothing lasts for long . . .  
  
(Even still, if you need an instant cure from the fluff, I did write an angst piece, _Beloved_ — yep, another shameless plug.)


	4. To Build Upon Sand

**Chapter IV**  
_To Build Upon Sand_  
  
  


After their first night spent in the Dieudonné household, Christian had been next to banished from spending too much time with Satine—while the doctor noted himself to be perfectly sympathetic of their situation, he had also pointed out to Christian that Satine was highly contagious. Christian had returned with the argument that the doctor himself was allowed in there, and after that had failed, went on to state that if it was contagious, then he was likely already sick himself.  
  
Dr. Dieudonné, however, was not convinced, and so for the next week, while Satine was kept under observation by the man, Christian was forced to find other ways to occupy himself. As promised, he had retrieved his typewriter from the pawn shop when he went to trade in part of Satine's jewelry to help pay the doctor's fees (though that was something that still had not yet been fully discussed), having found the Underwood waiting patiently there for his return. Following that, he had spent a good deal of his time writing—when he was not busy arguing with the doctor to let him see Satine—once again channeling emotion into creative thought.  
  
Christian had become well-liked by all the Dieudonné family, particularly following his 'exile' of sorts into residence upon the couch in the doctor's office, though Sophie in particular was 'quite enamored' of the young writer, as described by her grandmother, and Christian often found himself with the energetic eight-year-old for company. He had always been good with children, and the girl reminded him much of his own younger sister, whom he had practically helped raise in the absence of their mother and constant distraction of their father.  
  
Sophie was a highly talkative little girl, and in the course of the days he spent there, Christian had learned that Sophie and her brother Philippe had been orphaned, both their parents having died within only a year of each other, and that was how they had ended up living with their grandparents. And in all truths, the forged friendship was good for both of them—Sophie found company, as her twelve-year-old brother was always off with his friends, and Christian found a distraction from his worry about Satine.  
  
She also gave him creative input on his writing, and delighted quite a bit when he took to telling her stories.  
  
"So, the princess—" In this retelling of the tale, the courtesan had instead become a princess, which seemed altogether fitting to Christian in any case, "—tells the knight that she does not love him, and that she is instead choosing to marry the king of a foreign land."  
  
"And then what happens?"  
  
"Well, after that, the knight is heartbroken. He doesn't believe that the princess could truly mean such a thing, so he goes to the castle the day the wedding is supposed to take place, and—"  
  
Christian's words were cut off, however, by the entrance of Dr. Dieudonné into the office after a brief knock on the frame of the open door.  
  
"Sophie, go help _Grandmère_ with supper."  
  
Sophie looked prepared to protest, but gave a little nod at seeing the grave expression on her grandfather's face. "_Oui, Grandpère_," she offered simply, then got up and exited the room.  
  
Dr. Dieudonné closed the door, then turned back to face Christian, who had risen from his position before his typewriter, nervously straightening the cuffs of his shirt. He knew the doctor had just come from seeing Satine, and was unable to hide his trepidation over seeing what the man had to say—he had, after all, promised Christian a diagnosis within a week.  
  
"Monsieur James," the older man began with a faint sigh, "Mademoiselle Satine is a very sick woman. In fact, it is surprising that she had not already succumbed to her illness when you brought her to me."  
  
Christian hesitated, pushing back the nauseating sensation of bile rising in his throat, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I-is she going to be all right?"  
  
"Only time and proper treatment can tell that. Her consumption went untreated—and I can only hope as an explanation, unnoticed—for a long while, and she continued to exert herself with normal activity, which took its toll as well. Progress has recently been made in treatment methods, and she seems to uncannily have regained strength since you brought her here."  
  
"Then—what can we do?"  
  
"Mademoiselle needs a proper atmosphere for recovery, somewhere away from the crowded and dirty city, as well as the correct medicines, and—"  
  
Though realizing, with an increasing feeling of pressure against his heart, that the doctor was more or less trying to tell him, although not unkindly, that he probably didn't have the ability to properly help Satine recover, Christian still shook his head and interrupted the man. "What do you recommend, then?"  
  
"My recommendation to you would be that you take Mademoiselle Satine to Egypt."  
  
  
  
"Egypt?" Satine questioned an hour later, after the doctor had finished explaining everything to Christian, and actually allowed him into the room with her.  
  
"Yes. The climate is arid, and it's supposed to help your breathing." Christian paused, hesitating. "The doctor said that it won't be an easy journey . . ."  
  
"We'll make it," she responded with a faint smile, some color seeming to have returned to her face since he'd entered the room to tell her what the doctor had said.  
  
Christian returned the smile with one of his own, then began pacing up and down the floor alongside the bed in an anxious motion. "Dr. Dieudonné has an English colleague there that can take care of you."  
  
Now it was Satine's turn to show hesitation. "But how much is it going to cost?"  
  
"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of everything."  
  
  
  
Another week went by, and Dr. Dieudonné informed Christian that Satine was in as good a condition for travel as she was going to be. Travel arrangements were made, and their things were packed in preparation for the journey that lay ahead, though Christian said nothing of where he had gotten the money to do such a thing, simply confidently forging ahead as necessary. Satine had become increasingly nervous about things, however, and such anxiety was visible as she sat on the edge of the bed, twisting the lace-edged handkerchief around in her hand, the material threatening to give if she tested it any further.  
  
Christian looked up at her from where he was making a few final preparations, loading his typewriter—one of the few personal effects he had left to take along, as much of it had been left behind at his garret in Montmartre—into its case. "You look nervous, darling. If you don't feel up to making the trip after all—"  
  
"No, no," she interrupted before he could finish, and offered a reassuring smile. "It's all right. I was just sitting here thinking."  
  
"About what?" Promptly putting down the typewriter, now secured within its case, in order to lend her his attention, Christian straightened to gaze thoughtfully at her.  
  
"Everything. These past two weeks, I've had a lot of time to think."  
  
He gave a gentle smile. "Yes, well, you can blame that on Dr. Dieudonné, since he wouldn't let me in to see you."  
  
Satine laughed softly, but soon shook her head and looked away. "No, really—I've been thinking about a lot of things." Her smile turned wistful and almost melancholy then, sapphire eyes shifting downward to the material of the handkerchief entwined in her fingers.  
  
Christian furrowed his brow, canting his head to the side as he studied her face, trying to read her expression. But as he had on many prior occasions, he found it difficult to tell what she was thinking. "Satine?"  
  
"Christian, are you sure this is what you want?"  
  
He frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but she continued without allowing him to answer.  
  
"I'm a courtesan, I have no money, nothing to offer you . . ." She trailed off, considering this, but added solemnly, "Except my love."  
  
"And that's enough," Christian responded with a vehemence uncommon to the young writer, reserved for discussions such as these that had to do with love.  
  
Satine sighed faintly at this, then began to sing softly.  
  
"_Come here, pretty please,  
Can you tell me where I am?  
You . . . won't you say something,  
I need to get my bearings.  
I'm lost, and these shadows keep on changing . . .  
  
I'm haunted,  
By the lives that I have loved,  
And actions I have hated.  
I'm haunted,  
By the lies that wove the web  
Inside my haunted head . . ._"  
  
She paused, drawing in a breath. Christian moved over to sit on the side of the bed and take her hands in his, tilting her chin gently back to face him as he sang in return.  
  
"_Don't cry, there's always a way.  
Here in November in this house of leaves,  
We'll pray.  
Please, I know it's hard to believe,  
To see a perfect forest through so many splintered trees.  
You and me, and these shadows keep on changing . . .  
  
I'll always want you,  
I'll always need you,  
I'll always love you . . ._"  
  
Satine smiled slightly, lifting a hand to caress his cheek.  
  
"_I'm amazed, the places you're taking me to . . ._"  
  
Christian leaned in and kissed her softly, though Dr. Dieudonné had, if not in so many words, prohibited such contact, then pulled back and leaned his forehead against hers. "This is what I want, Satine . . . I've never wanted anything more than this. Come what may."

  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Songs used are "Haunted" and "Amazed" by Poe. Christian would be most distressed to learn Word notes "come what may" as "verb confusion," by the way. Also, when I posted revisions to chapter three, Fanfiction.Net decided to rearrange chapters one and two—so in case anyone read them during that period and ended up confused as a result, the correct order is _Tempt Not a Desperate Man_, followed by _A Word and a Blow_. Sorry about that—and thank you for all reviews!


	5. You Can’t Walk Away From Love

**Chapter V**  
_You Can't Walk Away From Love_  
  
  


It was snowing again.  
  
Satine gazed out the window at the pristine crystals that fell in a gentle wave toward the ground, her thoughts drifting toward the hope that the change in weather would not severely hamper their plans for travel. Christian had spent a week making arrangements and preparations, and had been working himself nearly as hard as he had the last few days before _Spectacular Spectacular_ was to open, and indeed it would be a tragedy for all that planning shouldn't go to waste.  
  
But as she glanced up toward the clouded morning sky, Satine couldn't repress the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sensation that something simply wasn't right. Everything should have been perfect—she and Christian were finally leaving Paris; she would at long last fulfill her dream of flying away from there. Away from Montmartre, away from the Moulin Rouge . . . away from the Duke.  
  
She sighed, her breath fogging the frosted windowpane.  
  
Christian entered the room a moment later, and she could almost feel his anxiety as he moved over to her, her coat in his hands. She obediently shrugged the heavy woolen winter garment on, absently looping the buttons into their holes, and securing her scarf around her neck.  
  
"Are you ready, darling?" Christian asked gently.  
  
Satine turned to face him, and gave a resolute nod, ignoring the twisting of her stomach into knots. She tried to put it off to the fact that, despite all her 'worldly' qualities, she was not a well-traveled woman, but it was a feeling she recognized all too well . . . much the same that she had experienced before the events that had occurred in the Gothic Tower. That was weeks ago now, but it all still seemed so close at the back of her mind . . .  
  
"Then we'd better go; our train leaves in an hour."  
  
  
  
_"Look, Christian—isn't it beautiful?"  
  
Satine was leaning with her arms folded against the railing of the boat that was sailing them down the sapphire ribbon of the Nile, a dreamy expression on her fair features. Already she looked healthier, her voice light-hearted and melodic as she called out to him.  
  
Christian stood alongside her, gazing lovingly at her instead of the sunset she was referring to, and his response came with an earnest nod of agreement. "Beautiful."  
  
He was inspired undoubtedly by the breathless sight of Satine against the exotic backdrop Egypt provided, comparisons made of her lovely eyes to the color of the river Nile, her hair the same as the red and gold in the setting sun's reflection before them.  
  
Yes, it was beautiful.  
  
She smiled toward him in a carefree manner, and for the first time he noticed she was not wearing the traditional styles of turn of the century Paris. Instead, her willowy form was clad in a dress of pure white linen, fitted at the waist with a simple belt of gold. It seemed to suit her well, more so than her previous wardrobe had. It made her not the Sparkling Diamond, but simply . . . Satine. The woman that he loved.  
  
Time seemed to slow, as it often had cause to do while he was in her presence, and she turned back to the railing, leaning down to skim her fingers along the surface of the sparkling blue waves, though it distantly registered in his mind that the water should not be so closely within reach.  
  
She reached down further, and he opened his mouth to tell her not to lean so far . . .  
  
But it was too late—she had gone over the railing.  
  
Christian plunged in after her without a second thought, the icy water immediately gripping his body and fusing it with cold, unforgiving despite the sunlight that filtered through, bathing the depths of the Nile in a reddened glow, making it appear more a river of blood than a giver of life.  
  
Then, there was a glimpse of a fiery curl, and he twisted madly in her direction, but it was to no avail; she slipped away from him, and he voiced a scream that came out soundless._  
  
  
  
Shivering and without a jacket to warm him, Christian sat up on the hard wooden bench, gasping for air until he realized he was not drowning after all. The cold that pervaded his limbs was from the snow; it had become a heavy torrent, and had bitten against his skin, the frozen flakes finally melting against what little warmth was left. He repressed a shudder, lifting a hand to his head, and finding that the touch of his frigid fingers hurt, though not simply from the chill.  
  
He repressed a shudder and gingerly reached a hand to his aching head, his eyes wincing closed in pain as he found a sizeable knot there. Opening his eyes again, he looked around his current 'accommodations'—if they could be called such—and suddenly remembered how he'd gotten the knot, and subsequently had gotten _there_.  
  
"Satine . . ." The drowning feeling of despair returned, and he slumped back against the cold and unyielding wall of damp stone, staring blankly at the bars of the cell. They had been so close, then their worst fears and anxieties had been imagined . . .  
  
  
  
The downstairs of the Dieudonné household had been silent as Christian and Satine made their way down to bid farewell to the family; too quiet for a home in which two children lived as well as the adults, but they'd been too anxious to pay it any real mind. Then they'd approached the parlor and heard unfamiliar voices drifting out along with the doctor's and his wife's, and hesitated, not wanting to interrupt.  
  
"You understand, Doctor, we must check everyone," a man's voice stated.  
  
"I assure you, Monsieur, I have not seen him—either of them," Dr. Dieudonné responded.  
  
Christian had frozen, brows furrowing in confusion and suspicion.  
  
"Is that so? We were told the boy was seen entering this very house."  
  
"I have no idea what you are talking about, and furthermore it is an insult to myself and Madame Dieudonné that you should suggest such a thing!"  
  
"My pardons, but I am certain in that case you will not mind us searching your home?"  
  
"I will permit this, but I will not allow you to subject my wife and grandchildren to it," the doctor responded firmly.  
  
"Very well, Monsieur."  
  
Satine's hand had tightened on Christian's, and they began to back away from the door just as Giselle Dieudonné came out of the parlor with Philippe and Sophie in tow. Sophie immediately gasped, seeing they were so close, but Philippe hastened in wisely covering his sister's mouth with a hand to keep her from giving them away. Giselle gestured both of them toward the kitchen door, and they disappeared into the other room just as the sound of the doctor and his 'guests' was heard from outside.  
  
"You—go search upstairs. You—look around down here. I'll check the wine cellar."  
  
There were sounds of shuffling outside the door, and then Giselle began to pull them both toward the door that led out of the kitchen—just as the man from outside, now made apparent to be a police officer, entered the kitchen and caught sight of them. He immediately began yelling out to his companions, and before they knew it, all three were in the kitchen—but Christian and Satine were not intent upon staying there.  
  
"There they are! Arrest him!"  
  
They immediately broke into a run out the door that Giselle opened for them, but the slippery ground was unkind to Christian's walking shoes and Satine's high heels, while their three pursuers wore heavy boots customized for the harsh weather.  
  
Suddenly, Satine's hand slipped from his, and Christian looked back to see she'd been snatched by one of the men, who had a firm grasp on her forearm, and though she was quick in planting one of her heels straight into his shin, he only wrapped an arm around her waist and held her tight, despite her struggles against it.  
  
"Satine!"  
  
"Christian! Go!" she yelled out at him, but he stubbornly refused, instead turning back to reach for her hands, grasping them tightly until the other two gendarmes seized him and pulled him away from her.  
  
"Let me go, you don't understand, she's dying—we can't stay here, we have to—we have to go—_don't you understand_!?" Christian yelled, struggling against them, but his feet would not find purchase against the snowy ground, and he felt himself wrenched away from Satine, a sharp blow connecting with the back of his head and quickly cutting in to his remaining resistance.  
  
"Arrest him, arrest him!" A new voice yelled out, but Christian was not coherent enough to make out a face, simply mumbling out a weak protest, unable to struggle any longer.  
  
"You can't—you can't do this . . ."  
  
The last thing he'd heard were footsteps crunching against the snow, and the earlier voice, now all too familiar.  
  
"You can't walk away from love."  
  
Then the darkness consumed him.  
  
"Hello, my sweet."

  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Title inspiration is from the film _Original Sin_. Sorry if it confused anyone, but just for clarification, the part in Egypt was a dream, when Christian woke up that was his current reality, and then the part following was a flashback, though I did not feel the need to italicize the whole thing.  
  
Merry Belated Christmas, and thank you for reading. Be thoughtful and review!


	6. No Matter the Cost

**Chapter VI**  
_No Matter the Cost_

  
  
  


The arm around her waist felt like iron; she'd tried to make the man release her by driving a heel into his toe, then her own toe into his shin, but it was to no avail. Though a grunt and a wince were given for her trouble, he only retaliated by releasing her arm, and taking hold of her waist. Satine pulled at the arm, but despite her height, her build was still thin, and her illness had caused her strength to wane. Therefore she was left to simply watch, helpless, as Christian turned back for her, even though she tried to protest, to tell him to go—they had to be after her, didn't they? It would be the Duke behind it, if anyone . . . she had broken her contract . . . he wanted _her_.  
  
It wasn't supposed to be like this.  
  
"Let me go, you don't understand, she's dying—we can't stay here, we have to—we have to go—_don't you understand_!?" Christian yelled out with a vehemence Satine had rarely heard in his voice, but then this was no ordinary situation.  
  
"Arrest him, arrest him!"  
  
The voice registered flickered familiarity at the back of her mind, but was soon enough disregarded as she was instead forced to choke back a scream, watching Christian be struck on the back of the head. With renewed strength, she pulled herself free just as the man she loved crumpled to the snowy ground in a heap. She hastened toward him and fell to the frozen earth on her knees beside him, heedless of the cold and the frost.  
  
"You can't—you can't do this," he mumbled, showing no sign of responsiveness to her touch as she brushed his hair back from his forehead.  
  
"Christian . . ." Satine shook her head, glaring up in anger at the gendarmes, who gazed back without sympathy.  
  
Then the fourth figure approached, a cane planting itself into the snow just at her side.  
  
"You can't walk away from love . . ."  
  
The Duke tipped his hat toward the distraught former courtesan, and his lips curved up into a smirk.  
  
"Hello, my sweet."  
  
Satine stared for a blank moment at the blonde-haired man, then scrambled to her feet, for once making no attempt to veil her contempt for him. "You bastard," she spat, then promptly raised her hand and slapped him across the face.  
  
The Duke's moustache twitched noticeably as he fought to remain calm in reaction, and his own hand lifted to cover the red handprint appearing on his cheek, before he coldly turned to face the man who was clearly the figure of authority in the situation.  
  
"Take him away, Inspecteur Bertrand."  
  
"No!" Satine immediately cried in response, wheeling around to face the uniformed man. "You can't do this—what are the charges?"  
  
"This man is under arrest for the kidnapping of Mademoiselle Satine Desmerges," he responded dispassionately, directing his two companions to pick up the collapsed writer.  
  
"What?" She gaped at him in a moment of shock, but then remembered suddenly—  
  
_"The show's writer has gone mad and kidnapped her!"_  
  
"Oh, no. No, no, Monsieur, _I_ am Satine Desmerges, and I went of my own free will! This man is guilty of nothing!"  
  
"I am sorry, Mademoiselle, but I am only following orders. There is nothing I can do—you will have to take up this matter with someone else."  
  
It took Dr. Dieudonné and his wife to calm her down as she was forced to watch them take Christian away. Satine knew it was unjustified, unfair—_the maharajah commanding his guards to take the penniless sitar player away and lock him in the dungeon_—but then when should any less have been expected of the Duke?  
  
"Well. I suppose we can take up this matter later, my dear," he stated with false politeness, turning back to her after a beat. He seemed to be relishing this just as much as Satine hated it, taking pleasure in his revenge. "I'm quite certain I might have a proposal that should be of some . . . interest . . . to you."  
  
Then that half-smile, half-smirk reappeared on his face, and he pivoted around on a heel and fell in step for the carriage where Warner waited for him.  
  
A great amount of willpower and restraint (though not self-restraint, rather the physical hold Dr. Dieudonné had on her arm) in the next few moments to prevent her from lunging after the Duke and throwing him into the snow, but as he disappeared from view, her anger seemed to dissolve away into despair, and she slumped against the older man and buried her face against his shoulder.  
  
  
  
Christian thought, not for the first time in the past two hours that being confined to a jail cell would have been far easier if he knew Satine was all right. But now that everything he could remember had been pieced together, he could only fill in the hazy blanks of grey with his own conclusions, and had reached the unfortunate decision that the Duke probably took Satine and intended to leave him there for the rest of his life—that was, if the Duke hadn't corrupted the police to a point where Christian would end up dead out of the situation.  
  
Groaning, he laid back on the bench with his hands over his face, trying to sort out his plight. He was in jail for, as best he could figure, something he wasn't guilty of, though he still had yet to figure out what the charges were. He hadn't seen anyone to ask since he'd been thrown in the cell—and, well, at that time, he wasn't exactly in any condition to be asking questions.  
  
The idea of being a martyr for love should have appealed to his romantic sensibilities. He was like Romeo, banished from Verona, but Romeo didn't have to worry about the safety of Juliet, until—  
  
No, he really didn't need to allow himself to think like that.  
  
"Oh, Satine . . ."  
  
  
  
"Oh, Christian."  
  
Satine ceased her pacing up and down the length of the Dieudonné's parlor, and pivoted around on her heel to face the doctor and his wife, who sat at the table in the room, watching her with sympathetic concern. The children had been dismissed from the room, having gone to the kitchen to prepare tea.  
  
"What am I going to do?"  
  
They had been lucky, at least, in that the gendarmes did not show any interest in implicating the doctor and his wife in the harboring of a wanted man—they simply assumed that the Dieudonnés had not been aware of Christian's presence there.  
  
"I have no way of helping him," Satine stated with a dejected sigh, sinking down to sit in one of the empty chairs that was pulled up to the table.  
  
"There must be some course of action you can take," Dr. Dieudonné stated, grey eyebrows knitting together in thought. He was concerned not only for the plight of the two young people to whom he and his family had become quite attached in the past few weeks, but also for Mademoiselle Satine's health. It was no favor to her condition that she was to remain there, exposed to the harsh winter, and to have to be burdened with so much worry besides . . .  
  
"We aren't married," she responded with a shake of her head, doing a mental inventory of what belongings she and Christian had. There was little of value, aside from her jewels, and most of those were already gone. "And I have no money."  
  
By now, though she would not tell the doctor and his wife as much, she was beginning to think that whatever the Duke's demands would be, she would have to fulfill them. There was a great possibility she would have no other choice.  
  
"And," she continued after a moment's hesitation, leveling her gaze on the couple that had been so kind to them, "we haven't been entirely truthful with you. I am . . . _was_ . . . a courtesan. I worked at the Moulin Rouge before we left Montmartre and came here."  
  
She held her breath after that, awaiting the negative reaction that she knew had to come, but to her great surprise, neither of them seemed entirely scandalized or even put out by the knowledge.  
  
"We know, _mon cher_," Giselle offered kindly, leaning over to rest a comforting hand upon Satine's shoulder. "But it does not matter to us."  
  
"Oh, but it does matter," Satine corrected her, shifting her gaze downward to focus on the tabletop. "The Duke, the man who had Christian arrested, he . . . he was courting me, when Christian and I left. It's his jealousy that's causing this now—and he's a powerful man. I have no idea how to fight back."  
  
The doctor smiled slightly, his head canting to the side in a thoughtful manner. "But perhaps there is yet an avenue you have left unexplored . . ."  
  


  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Satine's last name is taken from the early draft of the script that is included on the DVD—since it was provided as Olivier's, I would also assume it to be hers. Also, I would like to note for anyone who is curious that the last name Dieudonné happens to mean 'God given.' I thought it was fitting, since they were like a blessing to Christian and Satine.  
  
This chapter is dedicated to someone who most likely knows who they are, in recognition of the passing of one year . . . the happiness and the tears, I wouldn't take any of it back. _Votre amour m'a donné des ailes_ . . . your love gave me wings.  
  
I miss you so much, love, you don't even know.


	7. Underwood No 5

**Chapter VII**  
_Underwood No. 5_

  
  
  


The only mercy Christian could find in his confinement was that it was solitary—there was no other prisoner with whom to occupy the cell, and so he at the very least didn't have to worry about being stuck in a room only a few feet in each direction with a person who most likely _was_ a criminal.  
  
Not that he was becoming bitter to his situation.  
  
Or perhaps he was, but that oft happened to the wrongly accused.  
  
Christian ran a hand through his hair, gingerly feeling his scalp. Thankfully, the pain from the knot where he'd been hit had faded away into a dull throbbing, and it only really hurt when he sat up or stood too quickly. But that seemed like little compared to the worry and doubt that ate away at him, concern that something truly _had_ happened to Satine. Hours must have passed, by his estimate, and still she had not come. Not that he wanted her to come to such a dank, dark place such as this—but he had to admit that he wanted to see her.  
  
But he had heard nothing, and so perhaps it would be the solitaire note in his confinement that would drive him mad.  
  
  
  
_"Christian . . ."_  
  
He had faded off into a dream that was colored like a nightmare, in which Satine was yet again stolen away from him by the Duke, but the heavy blanket of sleep had fallen over him before he could resist it, and his brow furrowed in faint confusion at the voice, attempting to discern whether it was part of the waking world, or only another thread in the tangled web of his dreams.  
  
"Christian?"  
  
Exhausted with the weight of worry and concern, Christian batted his eyes open and focused hazily in the direction of what he knew roughly to be the front of the cell, moving to sit up slowly. The cloud of sleep sloughed off him like a splash of cold water, though, as his blurry gaze turned to rest on Satine's form there, silhouetted in the dim lighting. It was almost too much to dare hope; after the unknown amount of hours he had been there, he had begun to believe she was not coming.  
  
"Satine?"  
  
He stood quickly, ignoring the protestation of stiff joints, and crossed over to her, reaching out to brush his fingertips against her cheek, to touch a strand of red hair that fell about her face in a fiery halo of curls.  
  
"Oh," he breathed, for lack of anything more to say. Could he have done so, he would have pulled her into his embrace and never let her go, and he cursed the bars that restrained him from her. "Satine, are you all right?"  
  
She offered a wan smile, and her hand moved to caress his face in a similar fashion, knuckles traced along the curve of his jaw. "I'm fine; don't worry about me. Are you all right? I've been so worried—I thought they weren't going to let me in . . . I don't have much time."  
  
"Th—the Duke—he didn't . . . he hasn't . . ."  
  
"Shh, don't worry," she responded.  
  
Jealousy and cold fear like unto which he had never thought to experience again stabbed at his heart, instantly gripping it in a painful contraction, and he stared at her wide-eyed, shaking his head. "Satine . . ."  
  
"Christian, everything's going to be all right. Come what may . . ."  
  
  
  
Satine had never before been one to be compromised by emotion, or nerves; it was so much simpler to go through the motions with a cold shoulder and a hard eye turned toward the world, but her fingers fumbled as she fed a sheet of paper into Christian's typewriter, sitting poised before the instrument, staring blankly down at the row of neatly ordered keys before her. She had seen them countless times before, certainly, while watching Christian write, but typing seemed an entirely different matter, one decidedly more difficult than it looked.  
  
Or perhaps that was simple trepidation about what she was about to do holding her back. She wasn't certain she could follow Dr. Dieudonné's suggestion, but it seemed to be her only hope, aside from giving in to whatever demands the Duke would present to her . . . and she had promised Christian that everything would be all right. That alone had to give her resolve.  
  
Satine shook her head slightly, and turned to gaze out the window in thought.  
  
"_I had been made to believe  
That no one could love me for me.  
The good and the bad, first to the last,  
No matter the cost, no matter the past . . ._"  
  
More purposefully she turned back to the Underwood, and slowly but methodically began to type, continuing to sing to herself.  
  
"_Your eyes only see what they want to see,  
Your heart makes the truth what you want to believe.  
Passion turns pain into ecstasy,  
You can't walk away from love . . ._"  
  
The rhythmic clacking of the keys filled the air, and gradually the sheet of white began to fill with lines of neatly typed black letters.  
  
"_Loving you more than I do myself,  
Revealing the things I would never tell . . .  
Daring to risk even life itself,  
You can't walk away from love . . ._"  
  
She hit the stroke of a last period, then drew the letter out.  
  
"_Through all the lies, chasing the dream,  
Finding at last the woman in me . . ._"  
  
  
  
Satine folded the letter and placed it in its envelope, carefully sealing and addressing it, then she went back downstairs with a sense of hope blossoming in her heart, a smile gracing her lips. But as she found Dr. Dieudonné standing at the front door with a grave expression on his face, her features dropped, and she focused a hard gaze on the other man who stood with the doctor.  
  
The Duke tipped his hat to Satine, his cane tucked beneath one arm, then commenced to remove his gloves as if he were a typical caller and intended to make himself perfectly at home. As if to back up the actions of his employer, Warner flanked the smaller man in typical guard dog fashion, his mouth set into a thin line that might have been his idea of a smile.  
  
"Bonsoir, my dear."  
  
"What do you want?" she questioned in return, moving over to stand beside Dr. Dieudonné, who reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.  
  
"I thought I would be thoughtful and, ah, call upon you to see how you and your . . . _writer_ . . . are." There was no mistaking the contempt in his voice as he referred to Christian. Never once had he ever called him by name.  
  
"Get out," Satine responded dispassionately, forcing all the feeling and emotion from her voice, her grasp tightening on the letter in her hand.  
  
"I would suggest a more respectful tone when you are speaking to me," the Duke said, with a glance at Warner, and his lips twitched upward into a smile, "particularly when I have come to offer you so kind a . . . proposition."  
  
"You have nothing to offer me." She shook her head, and started to turn away.  
  
"Not even the penniless sitar player?"  
  
Though he would say nothing amounting to such in the presence of the doctor, when it could be made openly incriminating, Satine knew exactly what he meant, and gave pause, turning slowly back to look at him.  
  
"You see, my dear, I felt perhaps you would see reason after all."  
  
The weight of the letter, though it was simply a sheet of folded paper in an envelope, suddenly became painfully heavy in Satine's hand, and she curled her fingers around it protectively, a summoning of strength she knew she had, but which seemed so distant from her at the moment. She knew she had only two choices—that letter, and whatever the Duke proposed.  
  
She had best choose wisely.  
  
  
  
Some days later, a letter arrived for one Mr. Thomas James, addressed in what appeared to be a woman's hand, but typed in the familiar face of an Underwood No. 5.  
  


> _Father,  
  
I know I have not kept in touch as I should have, since my departure from London, but it was my feeling that you wished little to hear from me. However, I find the separation of family to be a continued strain upon me, and furthermore acknowledge that you were in many ways correct in your advice to me about Montmartre, and heeding such words of wisdom I have departed from the village, taking up residence in a respectful part of Paris, boarding with a doctor and his family.  
  
My wish now is to return home, but I lack both the funds, and have recently fallen under circumstances which prevent my travel. It is my request that you come to Paris, so that all might be resolved.  
  
Respectfully, your son,  
  
Christian James_  
  


  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: I started to leave it as a _real_ cliffhanger, but I'm not _that_ evil. (Even though some of my reviewers appear to think I am.) Song lyrics used are "You Can't Walk Away From Love," by Gloria Estefan.  
  
Also, I feel obligated to include a rather rambly note about the typewriter to anyone who cares. According to history, Christian would need to have an Underwood No. 1 or No. 2, but from my extensive research on the Internet, looking at pictures and comparing them, I find neither of the above looked right. So I moved on to the No. 3, which I did believe it was, but I've changed my mind again and gone with the No. 5, which, while I find it probably wasn't manufactured until December 1900, which would be too late for Christian to have one in 1899, it's one of the most common—and it might just be a factual error in the movie. In either case, I am content with messing with history a little bit.  
  
No, I am not obsessed. I like to call it a hobby. ;) 


	8. An Infinite Debt

**Chapter VIII**  
_An Infinite Debt_

  
  
  


Each day after sending the letter, Satine anxiously awaited a response. Days went by without any word, however, and she had begun to feel the strain of everything. The Duke continued to pressure her, apparently with plans of wearing down her resistance (feeling quite confident of the fact whatever her plan happened to be wasn't working—and at this point, Satine was starting to think he might be right), while Christian was beginning to withdraw into himself from having had too much time alone to think and wonder and worry.  
  
Finally, Dr. Dieudonné came to give her a decidedly flat letter in a cream-colored envelope, addressed in a heavy, bold script. The letter inside was the same handwriting, plain and practical, with no unnecessary loops or curls, written upon monogrammed stationery, worded as professionally as if it were a response to a business proposition and not the plea of one's own child. There wasn't even a real greeting; it simply plunged straight into the response, which would turn out to be hard, cold, and not in the least what she had hoped for.  
  
_Christian:  
  
While I approve of the fact you may have at last come to your senses and abandoned the foolish ideals for which I was forced to disinherit you, I cannot allow myself to take this change of heart seriously until you put forth the effort in returning home to tell me of it in person.  
  
Remember, words do not pay debts.  
  
Thomas James_  
  
Satine lowered the letter with a frown, then looked up wide-eyed at Dr. Dieudonné. "He's not going to help."  
  
  
  
An hour had passed since the doctor delivered the letter, and if Satine read it once, she had read it a dozen times over, until the words were stamped in their boldly inked pattern upon her mind. It seemed she had exhausted all her options; the Dieudonnés could not be expected to help her—she couldn't ask them to, not after all they had done for her—and now there was only one choice left.  
  
The Duke.  
  
Her mind flashed back to their meeting the day she had written the letter to Christian's father.  
  
"You see, my dear, I felt perhaps you would see reason after all."  
  
Satine simply stared at him with contempt steadily rising in her, and said nothing, her chin raised in a defiant motion.  
  
"I can still make you a star," the Duke stated in a hushed tone, temptingly, and in earlier days it might have seemed appealing to her. In the days when she was the Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge, but not now . . . that wasn't her any longer.  
  
"Not back at the Moulin Rouge, of course," he continued, when she still failed to respond, aside from fixing that cold gaze on him, eyes hard as fine sapphires. "That is beneath you, my dear—I have put in a bid upon a theatre in London; that is, if you will agree to come star."  
  
Her lips pursed together, and she shot back dully, "And?"  
  
"And?" he repeated, as if not quite following her train of thought. Then, vague recognition sparked upon rodent-like features, and the Duke inclined his head in a nod. "Ah, yes, the writer. He will be set free and returned to roam wherever it is he considers his natural habitat to be."  
  
Satine flinched at the mention of Christian as if he were no more than a common animal, but maintained her composure nonetheless. "How am I to know you'd keep your word?"  
  
"That, my dear, you shall simply have to take as a leap of faith." The corners of his lips twitched upward in a smirk, and he placed his hat smartly back atop his head.  
  
"I'll give you some time to think on it."  
  
  
  
Satine felt a shiver run down her spine as she set the letter aside and reached instead for the card upon which the address of the Duke's current place of residence was printed. It didn't seem so difficult a sacrifice, her own freedom for Christian's; she felt that she owed him that, and the only regret she harbored was that she wouldn't be able to be with him after all.  
  
"_I thought the future held a perfect place for us,  
That together we would learn to be the best that we could be.  
In my naïveté, I ran; I fell and lost my way.  
Somehow I always end up falling over me . . ._"  
  
Singing to herself more than anyone else, she moved to the trunk at the foot of her bed and opened it, removing a black dress that seemed better suited to mourning than anything else. After a moment's consideration, however, she set it aside and instead chose a gown of brilliant crimson hue—the very same she had worn the night she and Christian professed their love to one another.  
  
She wanted Christian to remember her that way, vibrant and alive.  
  
"_Does anybody feel the way I do?  
Is there anybody out there, are you hearing me?  
I believe in you, do you believe in me,  
Or am I alone in this hall of dreams?  
  
I believe in you, you believe in me,  
But I have no trust in anything.  
Somehow I'm always,  
Always falling over me . . ._"  
  
  
  
Only a few miles away, Christian sat fearing the worst and hoping for the best. A small leather bound journal was propped upon his knees, and he sat writing by the light of a single taper, the only thing he had to occupy his mind in the days that seemed to pass longer and longer. The worst part was, he was not only separated from Satine by stone and mortar, but suspicion and doubt as well, and his undying trust in her had begun to falter, as much as he willed it otherwise.  
  
"_They say that time will heal, the truth shall set us free,  
But that depends on what it is that you choose to believe.  
In this prison made of lies, we see what it is we want to see,  
And find comfort in these broken halls of dreams . . ._"  
  
He paused in his writing, leaning back with a sigh and closing his eyes.  
  
"_Does anybody feel the way I do?  
Is there anybody out there, are you hearing me?  
I believe you, do you believe in me,  
Or am I alone in this hall of dreams?  
  
I believe in you, you believe in me,  
But I have no trust in anything.  
Somehow I'm always,  
I'm always falling over me . . ._"  
  
  
  
Smoothing her hands down the front of the vermilion silk, Satine turned to look at her reflection in the mirror. She looked healthier than she had in a long while, despite the fact her illness was not yet to be forgotten. Her cheeks were flushed with two spots of color high upon snow white cheeks, and her porcelain-like face wore the grim set of determination. The blue eyes staring back out of the glass were hard, however, and she felt almost that she was looking at a stranger.  
  
Shaking her head slightly, Satine pulled a shawl about her shoulders, and exited the bedroom. She knew she owed Dr. Dieudonné and his wife an explanation, even though she couldn't expect them to understand, and she needed to thank them for their kindness to Christian and herself.  
  
Moving downstairs to the parlor, she was given pause as she spotted a tall, blonde man—too tall to be the Duke—standing in conversation with Dr. Dieudonné. He turned to smile at her as she entered the room, and immediately reached for her hand, lifting it to his lips and placing a kiss on the back of it.  
  
"Forgive my forwardness," he apologized after a moment, taking note of the fact she seemed somewhat taken aback by his actions, "but you must be Mademoiselle Satine. I have heard a great deal about you."  
  
Satine blinked slightly, taking her hand back. The stranger spoke in flawless French, which was her first clue to the fact he was a foreigner—few people took as much care with the proper use of their native language. "And you are, Monsieur?"  
  
"Alexander Castleton," he supplied, and offered another smile, his brown eyes warm and flickering with the sparkle of one who clearly had a lust for life. He was indeed tall, Satine took a moment to reflect—he actually managed to top her by a few inches, which was a rare occasion—and his blonde hair fell in a purposely tousled manner, windblown just enough so as to not make it appear he spent too much time combing it and slicking on pomades.  
  
"A pleasure, Monsieur Castleton," she responded politely, giving a formal nod, then went on to guess at his origins. "You are English?"  
  
"American, actually," he corrected, and straightened proudly with the statement. "I'm from New York—don't tell me Christian hasn't mentioned me to you?"  
  
"I'm sorry, but no." Satine shook her head again, casting a glance to Dr. Dieudonné, who simply shrugged. The man was as much a mystery to him as he was to her, and as they moved to settle themselves into seats within the parlor, the doctor remained largely silent, remaining there merely as a chaperone of sorts.  
  
"Ah, well, I don't suppose I should spoil the surprise," Alexander stated, glancing back and forth between the two.  
  
"Please humor me, Monsieur Castleton, if you don't mind," Satine responded with the detached, icy smile she had used so frequently in her former profession.  
  
If the American man was taken aback by this, he didn't show it. He simply reached into his jacket and removed what appeared to be a tiny cigarette case, but instead of removing a cigarette, he extracted a pair of calling cards from the brass encasement, handing one to Satine and the other to the doctor.  
  
Printed on the little paper rectangle in a neat script was,  
  
_Castleton Publishing  
New York - London - Paris  
Alexander Castleton, President_  
  
Satine looked back up from the card and lifted an eyebrow at him.  
  
"You see, Mademoiselle, I approached Christian a few weeks ago with the interest of publishing his work. He's quite a talented writer—you see, I'm quite a fan of the stage, and I was at the Moulin Rouge opening night of _Spectacular Spectacular_. I thought the show was absolutely brilliant—your performance in particular was marvelous—and of course I wanted to find the mind behind it and make sure he was discovered. It took a bit of tracking to finally locate young Mr. James, but when I did he seemed quite eager to have me publish him, and I even gave him advance pay for whatever he comes up with next."  
  
Castleton paused, giving a look of faint bemusement. "Which is part of why I'm here," he went on. "I haven't heard anything from Christian in a while now, and was wondering if something's wrong."  
  
Satine again glanced at Dr. Dieudonné, attempting to absorb all the information that had just been handed to her. That explained a lot—such as how Christian had obtained the money for the trip to Egypt—though she had to wonder why he hadn't simply told her the truth. Her lips pursed for a moment, then she turned back to Castleton and, seeing an opportunity in the making, decided to tell him the truth.  
  
"Christian is in jail."  
  
Castleton looked shocked—and with good reason. After all, Christian looked entirely harmless; who would ever think the young writer would be imprisoned for something?  
  
"Whatever _for_?"  
  
"Well, Monsieur, that is another long story . . ."  
  
  
  
No more than six hours later, Christian was startled by the sound of the cell door swinging back on its hinges. Looking up from the waning light of his dying taper, he saw one of the gendarmes standing there, along with Castleton, and behind him Satine, who wore a triumphant look on her face.  
  
"You're free to go," the guard told him, gesturing him out of the cell.  
  
Christian blinked, but deciding not to question it, leaned down and blew out the candle, then gathered up the journal he had been writing in, tucked the pencil behind his ear, and rose to move somewhat awkwardly out of the cell, hampered slightly by lack of real exercise over the time of his confinement.  
  
The first thing he did was sweep Satine up into his arms and kiss her properly, something he hadn't been able to do for weeks, and she returned the favor, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline.  
  
Even then, however, she didn't quite share the enthusiasm Christian did, unable to help the troubled feeling that lay beneath the joy of his release. She simply hated thinking they were indebted to anyone again in such a way. It was silly, she knew, to feel as such—Christian could make enough money writing to quickly repay his debt to Castleton, and then everything would be fine, and they wouldn't have any obligation or attachment to anyone.  
  
Yes, everything was going to be fine.  
  
As the lovers drew back out of a mutual need for air, the guard cleared his throat politely, seeming quite scandalized by the passionate kiss that had just been shared outside a jail cell. "Yes, well. You can go now."  
  
Christian grinned at the man, then took Satine's hand in his own, extending his free one toward Castleton. "Monsieur Castleton, I feel you must have had something to do with this."  
  
"I certainly did, though Mademoiselle Satine really deserves all the credit," he responded with a smile. "But come—it seems we have a lot of catching up to do."

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Notes**: Lyrics used are VNV Nation's "Holding On," which is such an incredible song. Go listen to it. I'm very sorry this chapter took so long to write, but I had some little plot kinks to work out. Subsequent chapters should come more frequently—and even more so with reviews to keep me going!  
  
I also have to note that, if any Harry Potter fans happen to be reminded of Gilderoy Lockhart by Alexander Castleton, it's not just you. He reminds me of him, too.


	9. The Renewal of Love

**Chapter IX**  
_The Renewal of Love_  
  
  


"I still can't believe it," Christian stated in a bit of awe, emerging from the small washroom that was connected to Satine's bedroom, running a fluffy towel over his wet black hair. His first insistence upon getting back to the Dieudonné home (after being welcomed back by the doctor, and exchanging hugs with Giselle and Sophie, of course), was to take a proper bath and to shave. He had never been one to grow a beard, and quite frankly in Satine's opinion it was not a look that suited him at all, obscuring his boyish features far too much.  
  
"What?" Satine asked, rising from her lounging position on the bed. She moved to take the towel from him, and began to assist in drying his hair, though she seemed only to manage to tousle the unruly strands even further.  
  
Christian gave a mock disparaging look at her feeble attempts of helping along the process, but submitted to it nonetheless, going on to state, "Everything that Alexander's done. It's really quite amazing . . ."  
  
In all truths, however, he shared the same doubts about the situation that Satine had—though neither of them had yet spoken of their concerns to the other. He didn't like being indebted to Alexander Castleton, no matter how nice and seemingly trustworthy the man was. One institution that Montmartre had firmly removed from his sheltered upbringing was the tendency to trust too easily.  
  
Alexander had, in short, paid the Duke off, given him money to drop the false charges that were being held against Christian. "Like most of the aristocracy," Castleton had explained, "he flaunts a greater fortune than he really has, and is easily bought."  
  
And even though Christian had expressed to Alexander how great a debt he felt this to be, the American man had simply shrugged it off and told Christian, "I'm sure you'll write enough to more than make up for it."  
  
Satine nodded slightly, with faint resignation, then released the towel to allow it to settle around his shoulders. "I know."  
  
Christian eyed her in concern, thinking perhaps she was feeling ill. "Are you all right?"  
  
Correctly interpreting his meaning, she nodded, then shook her head only a moment later, as if dancing with indecision on the matter.  
  
"Yes. And no. I just find it difficult to trust anyone anymore, Christian," she said with a sigh.  
  
"I know. And I don't blame you for it," he responded. "After all, I didn't even tell you about Alexander's offer. It was major news, I'll admit, and I didn't share it with you. I'm sorry, Satine—I just didn't want you to be worried."  
  
Feeling as if a major weight had been lifted off his chest, Christian smiled a rueful sort of smile, bowing his head forward and looking up at her through the tangled fall of raven hair. "I'll never keep anything else from you, though, I promise."  
  
Satine looked distinctly uncomfortable, and with good reason. She felt the welling of guilt inside herself, and rather than melting into his embrace and reaffirming the words, she instead pulled back and went to retrieve the letter from the narrow desk that she had received from his father.  
  
"This came just today," she admitted, holding it out to him.  
  
Christian took the letter with a furrowed brow, seeming a bit chagrined upon notation of the heavy scrawl on the envelope's front, and his expression did not alter as he read the letter.  
  
" 'Words do not pay debts,' " he stated after a moment, his tone a bit detached from it all. "He always used to say that to me—I found it ironic that he'd quote Shakespeare while declaiming the very same profession."  
  
He gave a thoughtful pause, handing the letter back to her, then a beat of silence passed between them. "But I didn't write to him . . ."  
  
"I did," Satine responded, setting the letter back on the desk. "I wrote to your father, Christian, pretending to be you, and asked him for help . . . and that was the response I got. I'm sorry to have done it behind your back—I would have told you, but I thought you'd disapprove . . . and I didn't know what else I could do."  
  
She sighed, and crossed back toward him. "When Monsieur Castleton arrived earlier, I was on my way to see you . . . then I was going to see the Duke."  
  
Christian stiffened notably, though he did not say anything. He just swallowed hard, and stared at her in puzzlement.  
  
"The Duke told me, of course," she went on, the words punctuated by a bitter laugh, "that there was a way to get you released—if I agreed to go to London with him. I had run out of options," she finished with a sigh.  
  
"I'm sorry I had such a lack of faith, Christian. I should have believed more in love—it really does overcome all obstacles, I should have learned that by now."  
  
Though still trying to absorb and quell his anger and frustration toward the Duke—while at the same time praying fervently that he would be absent from their lives from this time forward—Christian reached out to draw her into the circle of his embrace.  
  
"It's all right. But let's make a promise never to hide anything from each other again."  
  
She nodded, and leaned against him comfortably, relishing in the way they simply _fit_ together, as if made to be that way. He was familiar in such a manner, and brought a warmth to her such as had been absent for all too long.  
  
It was like the sunshine after a spring rain, and as her head rested against his shoulder she inhaled his scent, not at all like the men she was once accustomed to dealing with. They had all carried the odor she came to associate with men—cigar smoke and musk and the cheap perfume of the woman they had bedded last. But Christian, he smelled of soap and fresh air and typewriter ink; like pleasant things once forgot, but never quite faded from memory; like home.  
  
Her fingertips lifted to run down his cheek, along the curve of his jaw, and a smile appeared on her face.  
  
"Smooth," she stated approvingly, looking back up at him. "Now you can kiss me again."  
  
"Is that a request?" he inquired, and leaned in to press his lips against hers, as with the same motion he tossed the towel aside.  
  
"Mm," was all she murmured after the break of the affectionate gesture, again feeling that comfortable reassurance. He was just like home.  
  
After that brief pause for air, their lips had found each other's again, and they moved in the direction of the bed with impassioned motion, Satine's hands grasping at Christian's shirt and pulling it untucked along the way. As he nearly tripped on the rather considerable hem of her skirt, however, Christian gave pause.  
  
"Dr. Dieudonné told us—" he started, but Satine cut him off with another kiss.  
  
"It's been weeks," she stated, not sounding unreasonable about it at all, "and I've had time to recover."  
  
Unable to deny the logic in this, Christian reached around her and began to unlace her corset, his fingers moving nimbly along the garment, as he had become quite accustomed over time to this particular task.  
  
Drawing in a breath as the stays loosened, Satine seemed to remember something, though she didn't seem particularly concerned as she took note of it.  
  
"But . . . we _do_ have dinner with Monsieur Castleton in an hour," she said, while in the midst of fervently unfastening the row of buttons down the front of Christian's shirt.  
  
"Mm, and one of the Dieudonnés might need something," he responded, feathering kisses down her jaw and along her neck and collarbone. After a moment more of dutiful concentration upon the task at hand, he triumphantly finished unlacing the back of the dress, and after slipping the straps over Satine's shoulders, it fell to the floor in a puddle of crimson silk.  
  
"I locked the door," Satine answered, helping Christian to shrug off his white button-down and pull his undershirt over his head.  
  
"But we really shouldn't," she added responsibly.  
  
"You're right," Christian agreed, though as they fell back among the tangle of sheets, neither of them found time to feel particularly repentant about it.  
  
  
  
Some forty-five minutes later, Satine was tossing clothes out of her trunk, debating over the things she'd actually brought from the Moulin Rouge and attempting to decide which dress would be best suited for the occasion.  
  
"Blue or pink?" she finally asked, whipping around to hold both dresses up for Christian's appraisal.  
  
Christian paused in his groping around under the bed, trying to find his left shoe, which seemed to have turned up quite _missing_, and squinted at the two proffered gowns, looking between the two in consideration before finally responding, "Blue matches your eyes."  
  
Satine glanced at them again with a brief moment of indecision, then tossed the pink (along with four others she'd dragged out) back into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. Pulling the gown of sapphire silk over her head, she struggled with the buttons that ran up the back—ruefully thinking over the fact that while Christian excelled quite a bit at _un_lacing things, she'd been largely forced to put her corset back on herself—then hastily pinned her hair back with a pair of silver, sapphire and diamond-studded combs, two of the few things she'd wanted to hang on to among her jewelry.  
  
"I still can't find my other shoe," Christian lamented, giving a scowl. He was still only half-dressed, one side of his shirttail left untucked, his suspender on that side left dangling, and of course, there was the matter of the missing shoe.  
  
Satine started toward him—and promptly almost sprained something tripping over the run-away shoe. "Here it is," she stated with some amount of exasperation, picking it up and handing it to him.  
  
"Thank you," he responded, and leaned forward to kiss her.  
  
It was a brief kiss, however, as Satine logically took it upon herself to remember what happened earlier started with just a kiss. Of course, there never really _was_ such a thing as _just_ a kiss, and she didn't want to be even later than they already were.  
  
  
  
Dinner passed uneventfully enough. It was spent mostly discussing what had happened, this largely for the benefit of the Dieudonné family, who were in attendance at their host's insistence, and as they languished over dessert, it was Castleton who brought up their plans for the future.  
  
"Christian—are you and Mademoiselle Satine still intending to move to Egypt?"  
  
"Actually, that depends on the advice of Dr. Dieudonné," the young writer responded, casting a glance to the older man whom by now he had come to respect and admire quite a bit.  
  
The doctor gave a thoughtful pause, lifting his wine glass to sip briefly at its contents, and it was only after he had completed this motion that he offered his advice.  
  
"I believe that it would still be beneficial to the mademoiselle's condition to take the trip to Egypt. The spring air of Paris will be of no help to her, perhaps even more of a detriment than winter has been, and of course my contact in Cairo is still awaiting your arrival, as I have not had time to notify him otherwise."  
  
Before anyone else could comment upon this, Castleton stated abruptly, "Then it seems that you shall indeed be going to the Land of the Pharaohs, and I think I shall join you there. It will be an excellent backdrop for your next story, Christian, if I may say so."  
  
He lifted his wine glass in the manner of a toast.  
  
"To Egypt!"  
  
  
  
To Egypt, of course, meant leaving everything in Paris behind. While this was not a particularly regretful occasion as far as leaving Montmartre, Christian made one last trip back to say his goodbyes to the Children of the Revolution. Satine declined to accompany him, as it still brought up a few too many unpleasant memories, but she did send her love to the Bohemians, and a letter for Harold and the others back at the Moulin Rouge. It was clear she still suffered a bit of lingering guilt for abandoning them as she had, though it was not a decision she could say she regretted, only the manner of its execution.  
  
When Christian arrived at Toulouse's studio, he found that the Bohemians had retrieved the things from his garret for him, along with the original copy of _Spectacular Spectacular_, though Christian insisted they keep that, as they might still find cause to put on a Bohemian Revolutionary show in the future.  
  
"Oh, Christian, things just aren't going to be the same around here without you!" Toulouse exclaimed in his lisping tone, reaching up to hug the taller man around the waist.  
  
"If one good thing came out of all this, it was meeting you, Toulouse. Meeting all of you," he added, though they all knew he was excluding having met Satine from all this, as that would certainly outweigh everything else.  
  
Then in turn Christian shook the hands of Satie and the Doctor, imparting upon the former a few pages of lyrics he'd come up with, but which had never been put to music, and to the latter an unopened bottle of Absinthe. When he came to the Argentinean, he held out his hand to the other, but was soon pulled into a great enveloping hug, a kiss planted on each cheek.  
  
"Nothing funny," the Argentinean added ruefully as he released Christian, "I just like talent."  
  
Christian grinned back at him, then gathered up his things and exited Toulouse's studio, feeling a bit of melancholy, for while they were still there, and would remain in his memory, he had the inkling he wouldn't ever get to see them again, not like this.  
  
After Christian was gone, Satie sat down at the piano with the lyrics he had been given, and began to compose the tune.  
  
"_Gotta find a way, I can't wait another day,  
Ain't nothing gonna change if we stay around here.  
Gotta do what it takes, 'cause it's all in our hands,  
We all make mistakes, but it's never too late to start again.  
Take another breath, and say another prayer . . .  
  
And fly away from here,  
Anywhere, I don't care.  
We'll just fly away from here,  
Our hopes and dreams are out there somewhere.  
Won't let time pass us by, we'll just fly . . ._"

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Notes**: Much fluff, but now it's off to Egypt. Lyrics used are Aerosmith's "Fly Away From Here," which sprang into my head as I was completing the chapter, and seemed to fit Satine and Christian well.


	10. The Gift of the Nile

**Chapter X**  
_The Gift of the Nile_

  
  
  


"All right, close your eyes."  
  
"Christian—"  
  
"Satine . . ."  
  
"Oh, all right."  
  
"Closed?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No peeking?"  
  
"_Christian_ . . ."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Leading the now effectively sightless Satine down the hallway by the hand, Christian beamed happily, like a child on Christmas morning. He had been like that ever since their arrival in Egypt four days before. Now they were in Cairo, and with some help from Alexander Castleton, strings had been pulled and Christian assured her that he had procured them a lovely apartment in a hotel where nearly all the occupants were Westerners.  
  
Given the fact Christian had found his garret in Montmartre rather more than adequate, this did not reassure Satine in the slightest.  
  
Even still, she couldn't help a swell of anticipation as he released her hands and she heard the turning of keys in a lock. Standing just behind them was one of the hotel attendants, leaning against the luggage cart and looking rather bored with the antics of the couple, though he waited patiently enough in mind of the tip he was certain to receive. Foreigners such as these were an eccentric lot, but they always tipped generously, though from true kindness or simple ignorance of the money system, he wasn't quite sure.  
  
"Can I open them yet?" Satine asked, bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet—a rather childlike gesture, but the move seemed to have awakened a youth in herself as well that she had thought lost.  
  
"Not yet . . ." Christian took a moment to glance inside the apartment to make sure everything was in order, then he reached out and took Satine by both hands, backpedaling in the direction of the door. Stopping there just outside the doorway, he moved around behind her, then said, "All right, open them."  
  
Satine opened her eyes and found herself staring into what was undoubtedly indeed one of the loveliest rooms she had ever seen. It did not have the gaudy, lavish appearance of any of the varied rooms in the Moulin Rouge, which were usually decorated to a certain theme—befitting of the courtesan that commonly used it, or a patron's wants. Nor did it have the penniless simplicity of Christian's garret.  
  
Rather, it had an atmosphere of its own, clearly decorated with the intention of mixing the exoticism the people from the West expected of Egypt, but it held on to enough of the European standards so as not to be completely unfamiliar. On the wall facing her, Satine could see a pair of balcony doors through which sunlight streamed; in fact, the entire place seemed flooded with light, the floors of polished hardwood, scattered here and there with well-woven rugs.  
  
The furniture was of a rich lacquered wood, its upholstery in predominant shades of white, ivory, and gold, just as the whole room—it seemed pure and golden, and unlike anything she had ever seen before.  
  
After her spellbound moment of silence, Christian leaned in and looked sidelong at Satine, questioning somewhat self-consciously, "Do you like it?"  
  
Satine still didn't say anything, causing Christian to shift his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, still staring at her. It was thus she caught him off guard when she gave a decidedly unladylike squeal of joy and threw herself at him. "I love it!"  
  
Christian staggered back with a grin on his face—which was soon enough smeared with red lipstick stains, not that he minded at all—and spun her around in a circle. "I'm glad. I was afraid you wouldn't, and, well—"  
  
"I really do love it," Satine said, more sedately this time, and she disentangled herself from him, wiping at the lipstick on his face with her handkerchief.  
  
"Let's go inside," Christian suggested with a smile, then he swept her up in his arms and carried her across the threshold.  
  
Satine felt a bit silly as she found herself giggling like some sort of schoolgirl, but that was something she could let go for the moment. As Christian put her down, she smoothed out her dress, then turned to look around the inside of the apartment.  
  
The next few minutes were spent with her flittering about pointing out various things, dragging Christian around as she did so—and for once, even the energetic poet seemed to have met his match. It turned out there was a small kitchen and dining room to the left, and a spacious bedroom to the right, making the place larger than anything either of them had ever occupied without having to share it with a family—or, in Satine's case, what had been like her family, the other performers at the Moulin Rouge.  
  
Finally, they ended up on the balcony, which happened to afford a breathtaking view of the city. It was all quite amazing, and as Satine leaned up from the railing and turned to Christian, aglow with a healthy radiance, she smiled and sang, "_I'm amazed, the places you've taken me to_."  
  
As the two shared in a kiss, the hotel attendant stood in the main room, where he had deposited their luggage—a trunk, three suitcases, and a small, but heavy case—and waited patiently to be remembered by the couple. They certainly were strange . . . well, in his consideration, _all_ the Westerners were, but he had a feeling these two were strange even to their own native people, and he had to admit they were rather entertaining in their eccentricity.  
  
In fact, he had a feeling he was going to grow to like these two.  
  
Finally, Christian led Satine back off the balcony, and as she moved off into the bedroom with the intention of freshening up a bit, he tipped the attendant—heftily, just as had been expected—and offered him a note.  
  
"Could you drop this off at the front desk for me?"  
  
"It would be my pleasure," the young man responded in his accented English, "and welcome to Cairo."  
  
"Thank you," Christian responded with a smile, "I think we're going to like it here."  
  
As the attendant left, he was passed in the hallway by none other than Alexander Castleton, who came to the open door of the apartment and stuck his head inside. He rapped on the doorframe, then finding Christian standing alone, moved on inside.  
  
"How's it going, Chris?"  
  
Before, Christian had never really noticed how different Castleton's accent was—he spoke similarly to his brash American kin, but it hadn't been detectable at all beneath his flawless French, which he had used up until their departure from France.  
  
Since arriving in Egypt, they had all decided to speak English; it only made sense, of course, as it was the native language of both Christian and Alexander, and they were more likely to find people speaking English than French. Satine was even fluent in the language herself, having included it among her versatility in dealing with men from various places, though she naturally had a French accent clinging to her words (which, personally, Christian found rather lovely).  
  
Christian looked up from where he had been examining the furniture, having decided _something_ needed rearranging, though he wasn't yet certain what—and offered the man a smile, though he still found it a bit disconcerting to be called by the nickname Alexander had decided to place upon him.  
  
"Good afternoon, Alexander," he responded pleasantly, then deciding it was the desk that needed moving, he began to drag it across the floor, until the American man came to give him a hand with it—though to be helpful, or silence the rather horrid scraping sound, it wasn't certain.  
  
"How are you settling in?"  
  
"Pretty well, actually—Satine loved the place. She's in the bedroom freshening up."  
  
"Ah, well, I just dropped in to tell you that I got myself a slightly smaller place a floor down from you, if you need me," Alexander offered, as they set the desk down near the balcony doors, where Christian would have a prime vantage point for the view afforded.  
  
"That's wonderful," Christian responded, lifting his typewriter case onto the desk, true to form unpacking his typewriter before anything else. It took him a moment to position the Underwood, during which Castleton remained silent, simply watching the young man he'd dubbed his 'creative genius' at work.  
  
"I was also wondering if you and Miss Satine would like to join me for dinner. There's a restaurant down on the main floor—I hear it has good food, sort of a mix of European and Egyptian, so there's something for everyone."  
  
"It sounds nice," the writer responded with a nod, setting a stack of paper alongside the typewriter. He paused a moment, then looked back up at his publisher. "Dr. Dieudonné's colleague here, Dr. Morrow, is supposed to come see Satine in a few hours, but that should be done before dinner."  
  
"Excellent—I'll see you around seven, then?"  
  
  
  
Christian paced up and down the length of the living room, and even around it. Really, his pacing had no particular aim or direction aside from constant motion, weaving around furniture, into the kitchen, even out onto the balcony.  
  
Finally, the bedroom door opened and Dr. Morrow stepped out. It had turned out he was around a decade younger than Dr. Dieudonné had been—probably in his mid-forties—and English rather than French. He had placid grey eyes, dark brown hair that was becoming gradually streaked with silver, and his skin was tanned golden from the Egyptian sun.  
  
The doctor offered Christian a smile, an expression which seemed at home on him, and closed up his bag as he walked over to the younger man. "She's getting dressed."  
  
Christian nodded pensively, then unable to hold in his anxiety any longer, burst out, "How is she, doctor?"  
  
"Miss Satine is a remarkable young woman. When Maurice wrote to tell me about the unusual case he had seen, I had no idea that she would be this far recovered. Considering the condition she was supposed to have been in when you left Paris, I really am amazed—and that's a lot coming from me, considering how many consumptives I have treated."  
  
Dr. Morrow paused, and removed his glasses, folding them up and dropping them into the pocket on his vest. "I think, Mr. James, that Miss Satine should make a full recovery."  
  
He halted again, rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning their cuffs, seeming quite unaware of the fact that Christian was hanging on his words.  
  
"I would, however," Dr. Morrow went on, "recommend that she continue to treat her illness in the same manner which you have been—I have left the necessary medication with Miss Satine, and I would actually suggest that _you_ start taking it as well."  
  
"Me?" Christian blinked. "Am I—"  
  
"No, not unless you've been feeling symptoms?"  
  
Somewhat taken aback, Christian shook his head. "No."  
  
"Consider it a precautionary measure, then. Consumption is something easily picked up in a city environment such as that you experienced in Paris. If you and Miss Satine have lived together, breathed the same air, then—well, consider me quite amazed you _haven't_ developed symptoms."  
  
Pausing in his somewhat severe speech to the young man, Dr. Morrow offered another smile. "Don't worry, I'm not trying to scare you—I just want to make sure you understand how serious this could have been, or could still be."  
  
Christian nodded slightly. "Thank you, Doctor."  
  
"It's been my pleasure. I'll see you this time next week, then."  
  
As the doctor left, Christian remained standing there rooted to the same spot, pensively staring at the wall opposite him. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open and Satine stepped out with a look of wonder on her face. She was already dressed for dinner, having decided to change after the doctor finished examining her.  
  
Christian looked up at her, then crossed the distance between them and enveloped her in a tight embrace.  
  
"You're going to be all right . . ."  
  
Satine returned the embrace, clinging to him, and despite herself tears of relief had begun to roll down her cheeks. "I know. It's almost hard to believe it's real."  
  
"But it is," he assured her, pulling back to look into her eyes, and Satine could see that he was crying as well.  
  
He leaned in to kiss her tears away, then pulled her back into the circle of his arms. "Everything's going to be all right now."  
  
But as Satine leaned her head against his shoulder, Christian simply wished he could banish his unease . . .

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Naughty me, ending the chapter with an ellipsis. Brief use of lyrics is credited to Poe's "Amazed," which is a recurrence from chapter four. Forgive all the dialogue and seemingly pointless description, but it's important, _really_. Next chapter: Angst, betrayal, and singing!  
  
Also, this chapter is dedicated to BeetleBon99, for faithfully reading and reviewing every single chapter, and everyone else who has read and reviewed!


	11. A Glimpse of the Past’s Future

**Chapter XI**  
_A Glimpse of the Past's Future_

  
  
  


_"Tell me the truth!"  
  
They were standing there backstage during the show—Christian recognized it as backstage, but couldn't understand what they were doing there. His hands grasped at Satine's shoulders, and she was kneeling there before him, shaking her head in denial of what he was demanding of her. He could see the sleeves of the sitar player's coat, which he had removed from the Argentinean's unconscious body, and Satine wore the white vestiges of the Hindu courtesan's wedding gown, along with the heavy choker gifted from the Duke.  
  
"Open the doors!"  
  
"Tell me the truth; tell me you don't love me!" Christian continued to shout in a frenzy uncommon for himself, shaking with the emotions that ravaged him.  
  
"Open the doors!"  
  
Distantly, the voice of Harold Zidler sounded again from the stage, before Christian's vision was flooded with light . . .  
  
"I've paid my whore . . . I owe you nothing, and you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!"  
  
It was Spectacular Spectacular, only Christian played the part of the sitar player, and the money he knew he'd pawned his typewriter for was thrown down upon the stage in front of Satine's collapsed form . . .  
  
He was walking away, but she beckoned him with a song, and suddenly they were reunited again, their voices joining together, and he felt so high . . .  
  
"Come what may . . ."  
  
Then he was kneeling there on the cold flooring of the stage himself, surrounded by rose petals and the other members of the cast, Satine's weakening form in his arms . . .  
  
"I'm sorry, Christian. I'm—I'm dying."  
  
"Shh, you'll be all right, you'll be all right—"  
  
"Tell our story, Christian. That way, I'll always be with you . . ."_  
  
  
  
Satine shifted around in her deep, pleasant sleep, intending to snuggle closer to Christian—but her hand met only empty air, and she frowned, blinking her eyes open. There was indeed no Christian there, and judging from the tangle of sheets on his side of the bed, he had slept fitfully at best. There was no warmth left in the indentation from where he had laid, so she knew he had probably risen a while ago, but it was not yet morning, and with a glance at the clock she saw that sunrise would still be hours away.  
  
Rising quietly, Satine slid her feet into her slippers, then pulled on her robe and padded out into the main room, where she saw little sign of Christian. She passed by his desk, where a nearly full glass of water set atop its surface, the chair pushed out in sign of its late occupant's restlessness. Squinting down at the paper in the typewriter, she saw that he had paused mid-sentence in his writing, and had used a pen to mark through words and correct them several times.  
  
Frowning at this, she moved on past the desk and found the balcony doors were open, the sheer curtains billowing back from them like streamers. There stood Christian on the balcony, in his bare feet and haphazardly dressed, shirt hem left untucked and fluttering in the warm, gentle breeze. He was leaning forward against the railing, but his head was tilted up to take in the view of the sky above them, where a full moon hung luminous and silver among a dotting of twinkling stars.  
  
Satine lingered there in a moment of indecision, torn between interrupting the scene, or simply going back to bed and leaving him to his reverie. Finally, she decided that there was something decidedly melancholy about his moonlit silhouette, and she moved out onto the balcony, arms threading upward and around his neck.  
  
Christian barely started at her presence there, tensing for only a brief moment before relaxing beneath the comfort of her touch. He closed his eyes as her lips pressed softly against his neck, then up toward his jaw, and a light shiver ran through him.  
  
Satine remained silent for a time, settling herself against the railing alongside him, though she turned at an angle to face him, rather than sharing in the view afforded them there.  
  
"What's wrong?" she finally asked, looking up at him.  
  
Christian finally tore his gaze away from the sky and settled his attention upon her, his eyes seeming dark and troubled in the dim light.  
  
"I've been having dreams," he responded at length, reluctant to do so. In all truth, he had been having the dreams for days now—ever since Dr. Morrow had assured him that Satine would be fine—but he had chosen not to say anything, not having wanted to worry her. But now . . . now, the dreams were growing too vivid and too disturbing to ignore, and he had promised not to keep anything from her again.  
  
"Dreams?" she questioned, her brows knitting in concern as she studied his face. "Or nightmares?"  
  
"Both," Christian admitted, giving a sigh.  
  
He bowed his head and looked down across the city below them, then continued slowly, "Of you . . . of us . . . being back at the Moulin Rouge, the night we left, only—only, we didn't leave, and you . . . you . . . died."  
  
If she was taken aback by the statement, Satine managed not to show it. She simply rose from her perch and wrapped her arms around him again, and he accepted the embrace, his own arms finding their way about her waist.  
  
"But I didn't," she corrected him with a smile of reassurance, "I'm right here."  
  
"I know," he responded, and at the same time shook his head stubbornly, "but it felt so real."  
  
A shudder ran down his spine, and Christian drew in a slow breath. "It frightened me. More than anything else, the thought of losing you—"  
  
"Shh," she interrupted, lifting a finger to his lips. "I'm not going to leave you."  
  
He nodded slowly, reluctantly, still unwilling to let go of the vivid imagery that danced around his mind. It was silly, he knew, to worry about dreams when he had her there in his arms, solid, and real, and _alive_ . . . but the doubt lingered despite all that.  
  
"It was only a dream," Satine continued, drawing her hand back down and leaning up to kiss him softly.  
  
"Only a dream," he repeated, and he gave a firmer nod.  
  
"Let's go back to bed," she beckoned, and he followed her, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind.  
  
As they settled back into bed, Satine snuggled into the crook of his arm and soon fell back to sleep, but Christian would find no peace that night . . .  
  
  
  
"A love story," Alexander stated, lowering the page that Christian had only just taken from the typewriter to show him.  
  
"A story about love," Christian corrected with a smile. Though he had gotten little sleep the night before, his energy returned soon after rising earlier that morning, and since then he had been busily at work on his new story, the one he was certain would be _the_ story.  
  
"Well, Chris, I'm no expert—" Castleton paused, smirking at his own pun, "—but I think you have a best seller on your hands."  
  
Christian accepted the page as it was offered back to him, and set it aside on the desk.  
  
"Yes, well, I'm not really looking to do it for the money, but because I love what I do . . ." He trailed off, thinking momentarily about that debt he owed his future publisher, "But I am glad to know you think people will like it."  
  
"In my opinion, they'll _love_ it," Alexander responded with a grin, obviously pleased with the young writer's progress. "You're going to be a famous man, a renowned writer."  
  
He nodded toward the careworn copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ that lay atop the desk, then went on, "I daresay even Shakespeare himself would be proud."  
  
Christian smiled and shook his head, settling back into the chair at his desk just as Satine approached and leaned down to kiss him affectionately on the cheek.  
  
"Don't be so modest," she chided him, then turned and offered Alexander a smile. "He underestimates himself, doesn't he?"  
  
"Quite," Castleton agreed.  
  
"And now you're both just trying to embarrass me," Christian protested good naturedly, in the manner of one who is really enjoying the compliments he is receiving, but still feels it in his better graces to be humble about it.  
  
"Never, darling," Satine responded innocently.  
  
She moved to sit down on the couch, then glanced back and forth between the two men. "Though I do hope I'm not interrupting you gentlemen?"  
  
"No, Miss Satine," Alexander provided, "we were just discussing the new story."  
  
"Ah, yes," she responded with a teasing smile in Christian's direction, "the '_story about love_.' "  
  
It seemed she, too, had made the same error as the American man, and had been promptly corrected on it.  
  
The writer of said story, however, simply gave a long suffering sigh and turned back to his typewriter, feeding another sheet of paper into it.  
  
"Well, the genius is at work, and I have some business I need to take care of, so I think I'll leave you two now. You two have a good morning." Alexander rose and nodded to them both, then let himself out of the apartment.  
  
As soon as he was gone, Satine got up and moved back over behind Christian, draping her arms around him and settling her chin on his shoulder as she read the words that were appearing on the page along with the typewriter's rhythmic clacking of keys.  
  
By now, Christian had gotten used to her reading over his shoulder like that, considering she had impatiently awaited every new scene of _Spectacular Spectacular_ when they were back in Montmartre. However, he was _not_ used to the way she was blowing in his ear, or distractingly nibbling his earlobe, and his typing died off with a few feeble clicks.  
  
Satine grinned in a positively wicked manner in response to the pleading glance he cast up at her, but soon enough found the tables turned upon herself as Christian grabbed her by both hands and pulled her into his lap. They settled as comfortably as two people could be in a chair designed for only one, Christian wrapping his arms around her waist and Satine covering his hands with her own.  
  
"You slept late," he stated.  
  
"Mm," she responded, twisting around to look at him, "and you didn't sleep at all."  
  
Slightly taken aback by that, Christian raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"  
  
"You tossed and turned. I don't sleep _that_ deeply," she stated matter-of-factly.  
  
"I didn't disturb you, did I?" he asked, now self-conscious of the nightmares that plagued him.  
  
"No, darling, it's all right." She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead, then settled in with a contented sigh, leaning her forehead against his.  
  
They sat there in silence for a time, but it was a comfortable one rather than an awkward pause.  
  
Finally, Satine was the one to break the silence.  
  
"You know, Christian . . ."  
  
"Hmm?" he murmured, looking up sidelong at her.  
  
"I don't know where I'd be without you." She paused, hesitating, but lifted a finger to his lips as he began to respond.  
  
They both knew where she would probably be, in a literal sense of things—with the Duke, or *dead*, though neither happened to be situations either of them wanted to bring up . . .  
  
Drawing in a breath, she began to sing softly instead.  
  
"_I can fly, but I want his wings.  
I can shine even in the darkness,  
But I crave the light that he brings.  
Revel in the songs that he sings . . ._"  
  
Satine got to her feet, prompting Christian to rise along with her.  
  
"_I can love, but I need his heart.  
I am strong, even on my own,  
But from him I never want to part.  
He's been there since the very start . . ._"  
  
She pulled him in close to her, and they began to dance across the floor, heedless of everything else around them.  
  
"_Bless the day he came to be.  
Angel's wings carried him to me.  
Heavenly . . .  
  
I can fly, but I want his wings.  
I can shine, even in the darkness,  
But I crave the light that he brings.  
Revel in the songs that he sings . . ._"  
  
Satine smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly and sweetly. "You're my angel, Christian."  
  
Christian returned the smile, his expression conveying the emotion he felt in response to her words, a rare moment of introspection into the mind of this woman he loved so deeply.  
  
"I love you, Satine," he stated simply, when he finally trusted himself to speak again.  
  
"I love you, too."

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Kind of lengthy, and wow, a lot of fluff, but I really am going somewhere with the things in this chapter. Lyrics are from Lamb's "Gabriel," edited to take out the lines that actually included the name Gabriel, since . . . that is not Christian's name. I use a lot of Lamb lyrics—take that as a hint and check out their music, since it's really great. (Psst, for the uninformed, their song "Gorecki" is that one Satine sings that begins "If I should die this very moment . . .")  
  
Thanks go out to Craig Armstrong for writing and composing music that's inspiring, and Black Tangled Heart for writing four reviews in the span of an hour—they helped get me motivated into finishing this chapter.


	12. Artistic Licence

**Chapter XII**  
_Artistic Licence_

  
  
  


"Satine, I've just been thinking, that—since we've been—since you and I—well, I love you, and I can't imagine my life without you in it—and I was wondering if—if you'd . . . m-marry me."  
  
Giving his own reflection a disparaging look, Christian looked down at the small velvet box in his hand in frustration. In it was his mother's ring—a single diamond of brilliant clarity, set into a surrounding of delicate filigree petals and leaves that were intended to make it appear a rose. The band itself was gold, twisted together like the stem of the rose would be.  
  
It was an heirloom that had been passed down through generations of the James family—and though Christian had thought his sister Margaret should have it, she had insisted he keep it to someday give to whomever he chose for a wife.  
  
Naturally, that person was Satine.  
  
But he faced one distinct problem—_asking_ her.  
  
After all they had been through, one should think such a thing to be simple. He was an eloquent writer. He composed stories of love and romance that brought people to tears! Yet, when it came to proposing marriage to the woman he loved, Christian was at a complete loss.  
  
One thing was certain, however—practicing in front of the mirror was getting him nowhere. The door of the apartment creaked open and he quickly snapped the box shut and slid it into his pocket, thinking it was Satine—but instead, it happened to be Alexander Castleton who came inside.  
  
"I knocked, but I don't think you heard me," he apologized, then offered the writer a skeptical look.  
  
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"  
  
"N-no," Christian stuttered out. The other man looked unconvinced, so he paused, cleared his throat, and tried again.  
  
"No. Satine's gone down to the lobby—I was just, um, working on my story."  
  
"Ahh." Despite the fact that Christian was standing a good six feet away from his desk, Alexander seemed accepting of this, and he nodded, stepping away from the door.  
  
"How's it coming along?"  
  
Christian moved back over to his desk and picked up a few pages that had been set alongside the typewriter. He held them out to the other man, and Alexander accepted them, settling down into a nearby chair to read.  
  
He remained silent as he read, lowering the pages with a pensive expression as he finished. "So, Colin represents you—"  
  
Christian nodded.  
  
"—and Sarah represents Satine?"  
  
"Yes. What do you think?"  
  
Castleton paused, then handed the manuscript back to Christian. "I think it's a good story . . ."  
  
"But?" Christian asked, sensing a bit something else to that comment than the man was letting on.  
  
"I don't know," he responded, giving a slight shrug. "I mean—I don't want to infringe on your artistic licence. You're the most talented writer I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot."  
  
Christian cleared his throat in embarrassment of the compliments, and turned to set the pages of his book-in-progress aside, shuffling them to straighten them out.  
  
"But I still think there's something you don't like about it," he said, turning back to the publisher. "I'd like to know what it is—because it might be something that would be better off changed."  
  
"Well," Alexander said reluctantly, lifting a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose in consideration of just how to correctly word what he was going to say.  
  
"Sarah, she's . . . well, she's a prostitute—excuse me, courtesan—and I have to wonder how that will go over with our audience. You might want to consider changing her to something a little more . . . socially acceptable," he stated diplomatically.  
  
Christian frowned in response to this—not out of disdain of the fact he was being criticized, as that was being done in a constructive and polite manner, but because he was a bit confused as to why Alexander would bring it up.  
  
"But," he responded after a moment, "It's important to the story."  
  
Castleton raised an eyebrow, as if waiting to hear _why_.  
  
Christian, who had enjoyed too long the freedom of Montmartre, and the adoration of the Bohemians he wrote for, felt suddenly as if he were back in London, in his father's home, being scrutinized about why he would want to waste his days writing silly stories about love, when he should be doing something constructive—like learning business skills, or courting a suitable girl to be his wife.  
  
"W-well," he stammered out, hating the fact he had to be so self-conscious over what was _their_ story, his and Satine's, "It's important because we have to sympathize with Sarah's point of view. You see, she's jaded, and she doesn't believe in love—then comes along this idealistic young man, Colin, who simply sweeps her off her feet when she's least expecting it.  
  
"We have to understand the world she's coming from, and know _why_ love, usually a many-splendored thing, is so bad, so dangerous. We have to know why it's so important that she allows herself to fall in love with someone, when it's been forbidden for the whole of her life."  
  
Realizing his speech was quickly turning into a tangent, Christian allowed himself to trail off, drawing in a breath.  
  
Alexander blinked a bit at the vehemence shown by the young man, then he nodded his agreement. "You're right—but, you know, those of us without the creative genius you have don't always see these things, and have to have them pointed out to us."  
  
Just then, the door opened and Satine came into the room, carrying their mail. The hotel attendants usually brought it up for them, but that day she had decided to get out of the room and go downstairs to wait for it to arrive herself.  
  
As she entered, Castleton stood. "Well, in any case—I think I'll be going. Christian, keep up the excellent work. Miss Satine, you have a nice day."  
  
He let himself out of the room, then Satine glanced back over her shoulder at the door, before turning back to Christian with a look of question. "Did I interrupt something?"  
  
Christian seemed to consider that for a moment, before finally shaking his head.  
  
"You look like there's something wrong," she pressed on, crossing the room to him. "Is it the dreams again?"  
  
"No," he responded honestly, rising from his seat.  
  
"Oh." Accepting this—if not entirely believing it—Satine turned her attention to the letters she was carrying, and handed one to him. "You have a letter."  
  
Christian accepted the proffered envelope, which was addressed to him from a Mlle. Sophie Dieudonné. He smiled at it, feeling somewhat cheered, and reached for his letter opener.  
  
"If I didn't trust you so much, I might think I had some competition," Satine remarked teasingly, walking over to read over his shoulder in a manner of mock scrutiny. "How are the Dieudonnés?"  
  
"It looks like they're doing well," he responded, shifting around to kiss her softly in greeting.  
  
He turned back to the letter, then went on, "Sophie has decided she wants to be an actress like you . . . and Philippe is teasing her about it."  
  
"Well, I say Philippe doesn't know anything, like most of the rest of his gender," Satine chided with a grin. She wrapped her arms around him, then held her own letter out. "Open this?"  
  
Christian glanced at the envelope briefly, before turning it over and cutting the top with the letter opener.  
  
"_Merci_," she thanked him with a peck against his cheek. Moving away so that she could more comfortably read, she removed the letter from its envelope and unfolded it, scanning the handwriting. "Odd."  
  
"What is it?" he asked, brows furrowing as he looked at the letter.  
  
"I thought it would be from Marie—but it's from Harold," she responded slowly, sinking down into his desk chair.  
  
"Oh." Concernedly kneeling down alongside her, Christian watched as she read the letter, expectantly waiting to know its contents.  
  
Finally, Satine looked back up, calmly handing the letter to him. "It seems Harold's found another financier for the Moulin Rouge, who bought the deeds from the Duke, and they're working on turning it back into a nightclub."  
  
Christian lifted a brow at this and turned to read the letter himself, thoughtfully attempting to read _into_ its contents. Zidler seemed to hold no resentment toward Satine for leaving with no word aside from a letter, and even encouraged her to be happy in her new life, but something about it seemed a bit shallow. He went on to give details of a Count coming into the production—apparently not having learned his lesson from last time, Christian mused—and had plans of making one of the other girls into the new star.  
  
Zidler went on to note in the letter that Toulouse said 'hello,' and that most everyone else was doing well—though, Nini, jilted at *not* having been chosen to headline the show, had decided to part company with the Moulin Rouge, and rumor had it she had taken a certain Argentinean with her. It rambled on for a few more lines, then finally closed with 'Tell Christian I wish him well. Love, Harold.'  
  
"Well," Christian said slowly, when he'd finished, "it's nice at least to know Harold's doing well."  
  
"Mm," Satine responded distractedly, absently fingering the envelope in her hands.  
  
"Darling, are you feeling all right?" he asked, brow knitting in worry.  
  
"I'm fine," she assured him with a nod. "I just feel a bit sick."  
  
Seeing his look of alarm, she hastened on to correct herself, "No, it's not that. I've a bit of a headache."  
  
"Maybe you should lie down, then." Christian rose to his feet and moved to help her up.  
  
Satine started to object, but as she rose, she pressed her hand to her forehead and nodded in assent. Looking up at his stricken face, she smiled reassuringly, leaning to kiss him. "Don't worry, Christian, I'm fine."  
  
He nodded, then as she disappeared into the bedroom, sat down at his desk and removed the small velvet box from his pocket. As he opened it up, the setting sun's rays fell across the ring nestled inside, striking a prism off a facet of the small gem, and he gave a sigh.  
  
Diamonds were the hardest substance known to man, but his own seemed so fragile . . .

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Short-ish chapter, but I have a lot of things to compress into the next one, and I didn't want this one to end up ten pages long. (If in the meantime you get bored, and like _Harry Potter_, let me give myself a shameless plug for my own vignette _Shed Not a Tear_.) Thank you for all the reviews — please do keep them coming!  
  
And on a random note — I find the new beige background most disturbing.  



	13. Creative Differences

**Chapter XIII**  
_Creative Differences_

  
  
  


Christian spent a long while staring at the ring, before finally setting its open box on the desk alongside his typewriter. He fed a sheet of paper into the machine, and began to type—but changed his mind and instead pulled up another sheet of paper and a fountain pen. He spent a while tapping the pen against the desk, (at one point leaving an inkblot against the paper, causing him to get another piece), intending to compose a poem or a song to Satine. He would write her something beautiful, then tell her how he felt and ask her to marry him. It was as simple as that.  
  
Or perhaps not so. He scratched out several lines, but always ended up marking through them, and eventually crumpling up all of them until the wastebasket was half full of wadded paper. Setting the pen down, Christian ran a hand over his face, at last deciding he couldn't go about it that way. Whatever he said to Satine had to come from his heart, at the spur of the moment, as everything had, from their first meeting until now.  
  
Picking up the ring box again, he palmed it and headed in the direction of the bedroom, pausing there outside it to check his appearance in the same mirror he had practiced his proposal on. He ran his free hand through his messy hair, straightened his clothing as best he could, then slipped into the bedroom.  
  
He'd expected Satine to be asleep, but instead she was sitting propped against the pillows, his battered copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ open on her lap. She glanced up at him as he entered and smiled.  
  
Momentarily thrown off by this, Christian swallowed—hopefully not audibly—and put his hands behind his back as he reached to push the door shut.  
  
"A-are you feeling better?" he asked, with an attempted air of casual concern.  
  
Reading into his anxiety—but incorrectly so—she lifted an eyebrow at him and lowered the book, setting it aside on the nightstand.  
  
"I'm fine, Christian," she insisted, offering a light laugh. "Stop worrying so much."  
  
He nodded slightly, then moved over to sit beside her on the bed, self-consciously fidgeting with the ring box, which he held on his other side, out of view from her.  
  
Satine sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and looked at him in concern. "Christian, is something wrong?"  
  
"No, it—it's just—" He stopped himself, frustrated, and bit his lip.  
  
She remained patiently silent, folding her hands in her lap and allowing him to say whatever was weighing on his mind. Somehow, she had a feeling it had something to do with whatever it was Castleton had wanted earlier, but she wouldn't say as much.  
  
"I—" Christian drew in a breath, hesitating, then burst out, "I want to spend my lifetime loving you."  
  
Satine smiled, albeit bemusedly—_this_ was what was bothering him so much? She found the sentiment sweet, of course, but didn't see why he would have to work up so much nerve just to tell her he loved her. It was something they said to each other several times a day, and while that did not diminish the weight of such a proclamation, it certainly wasn't a difficult affection to utter.  
  
Christian rose, slipping the ring back into his pocket, and took her by the hand. Silently, he led her out of the bedroom and back into the living room, straight to the balcony, where he opened the doors and drew her outside. Then, he began to sing.  
  
"_Moon so bright, night so fine,  
Keep your heart here with mine.  
Life's a dream we are dreaming . . ._"  
  
He gestured up at the sky, to the nearly full moon that cast its silvered rays down upon them.  
  
"_Race the moon, catch the wind,  
Ride the night to the end.  
Seize the day, stand up for the light . . ._"  
  
He turned back to her with a smile, and continued earnestly, uncaring of who heard.  
  
"_I want to spend my lifetime loving you,  
If that is all in life I ever do.  
  
Heroes rise, heroes fall,  
Rise again, win it all.  
In your heart, can't you feel the glory?  
  
Through our joy, through our pain,  
We can move worlds again!  
Take my hand, dance with me . . ._"  
  
Christian took Satine by the hand then and led her back inside, drawing her into his arms and twirling her around as they danced there in their bare feet upon the hardwood floor.  
  
"_I want to spend my lifetime loving you,  
If that is all in life I ever do.  
I will want nothing more to see me through,  
If I can spend my lifetime loving you . . ._"  
  
Satine smiled at him through the tears that had filled her eyes, and their voices merged together.  
  
"_Though we know we will never come again,  
Where there is love, life begins,  
Over and over again . . .  
  
Save the night, save the day,  
Save the love, come what may!  
Love is worth everything we pay._"  
  
Christian leaned his forehead against hers, continuing softly on his own.  
  
"_I want to spend my lifetime loving you,  
If that is all in life I ever do . . ._"  
  
Satine wrapped her arms around him as she responded quietly.  
  
"_I want to spend my lifetime loving you,  
If that is all in life I ever do . . ._"  
  
Their voices joined together again, as they finished,  
  
"_I will want nothing more to see me through,  
If I can spend my lifetime loving you_."  
  
Christian leaned in and kissed Satine, then drew back from her slowly and knelt down before her. Drawing the ring box from his pocket, he opened it and offered it up to her.  
  
"Satine, will you marry me?"  
  
Satine gazed spellbound at the ring, its diamond twinkling in the moonlight that filtered into the room. She felt herself growing dizzy, but in a lovely sort of way, her heart fluttering.  
  
Exhaling the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding, she nodded slowly, responding, "Yes."  
  
Christian stared at her for a long moment, before finally allowing it to sink in that she had said _yes_. He stirred, blinking, and questioned, "Yes?"  
  
"Yes," she affirmed, and held her hand out, allowing him to slide the ring onto her finger. "Yes."  
  
"Yes," he repeated, grinning, as he got back to his feet.  
  
"Yes," she said again, then all semblance of ladylike dignity was abandoned and she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him repeatedly. "Yes, yes, yes!"  
  
Christian, of course, accepted this with all the dignity he could.  
  
That was his job, after all.  
  
  
  
The next morning, Satine awoke to find Christian was gone again, his side of the bed messy, but devoid of any trace of body heat. This time, however, she had the feeling it was not from one of his dreams, but sheer exuberance—because she felt it as well. Rolling over onto her back, she held up her left hand and looked at the ring that adorned her finger, the facets of the little diamond twinkling in the morning sunlight. She smiled at it, then stretched languorously, marveling over the fact she and Christian were _engaged_.  
  
She was going to be Mrs. Christian James. Satine James. It didn't have the most poetic ring to it, but she couldn't care any less.  
  
"What's in a name?" she asked no one at all.  
  
"That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet," she exulted, then quieted, straining her ears for any noise to alert her of Christian's presence in the other room, but she heard no clacking of typewriter keys, or attempts at being quiet that usually tended to be louder for the efforts at silence.  
  
Glancing at the clock, she found it was already ten o'clock, and so decided—albeit reluctantly—to rise, singing happily to herself.  
  
"_The hills are alive . . . with the sound of music . . ._"  
  
After getting dressed, she stepped out of the bedroom and headed immediately for Christian's desk, where she found a note addressed to her—not composed on the typewriter, but written in his own loving hand.  
  
_Good morning, my fiancée,  
  
I hope you slept well. I've gone to mail off Sophie's letter—I promised her she'd be the first one to know!—and to get some fresh air. I left you some breakfast; I know you never like anything heavy. I love you and I'll be back soon.  
  
All my love,  
Christian_  
  
Satine smiled and looked over the top of the note to find a pomegranate sitting on the desk. She rolled her eyes, remembering the first time she and Christian had breakfast together—she'd eaten a single croissant, then declared herself full—but smiled at the sentiment nonetheless.  
  
Reaching for the pomegranate, she lifted it off the newspaper (printed in English for all the British people, as of course few of them could read Arabic), and after a moment's curiosity picked up the newspaper as well, deciding she would do well to catch up with what was going on in the rest of the world. They had become decidedly isolated in Egypt.  
  
Idly scanning the headlines, she took note of the date, wanting to remember upon which day she and Christian had become betrothed.  
  
_March 23, 1900_.  
  
That would make the day before the twenty-second. She frowned slightly, then—could it really be so late into the month? Setting the newspaper back down, she considered the pomegranate in her hand, but set it back down as well, her hand dropping to her stomach as a wave of nausea washed over her.  
  
"It can't be," she whispered to herself, counting back in her mind.  
  
It all aligned correctly, but still . . . it couldn't be.  
  
She was not granted much time to ponder the matter, however, as at that moment a knock sounded on the door, causing her to jump. Figuring Christian must have wandered through the market again and had his hands full with more trinkets, she moved to answer it, and found not Christian, but Alexander Castleton, on the other side.  
  
Castleton removed his hat—the American always seemed to be wearing a hat, Satine thought—and offered her a nod of greeting. "Good morning, Miss Satine."  
  
"Good morning, Monsieur Castleton," she responded politely, stepping away from the door to allow him inside. She turned back to the desk as he entered. "Christian is out right now, but you're welcome to wait for him if you'd like."  
  
"Actually," he clarified, closing the door behind himself, "I'd like to talk to you."  
  
Satine lifted an eyebrow in curiosity, moving over to settle herself on the chaise.  
  
"To me?" she questioned, that same cool composure coming over her that she always seemed to use in the presence of any save those who knew her well.  
  
"Yes," he continued, sitting down across from her and fingering the brim of his hat. It was a motion that reminded her vaguely of nervous customers at the Moulin Rouge—ones who were suitably intimidated by whatever act she was putting on.  
  
"Congratulations on your engagement, by the way," he finally offered. "Christian stopped by to tell me about it on his way out."  
  
So he really was there just to see her, as he'd already spoken to Christian.  
  
"Thank you," she responded primly, brushing a wrinkle out of her skirt. The ring on her finger twinkled, and a faint smile graced her features, momentarily banishing the professionalism.  
  
"You two seem very happy," Castleton said slowly.  
  
"We are," she said with a nod, the smile fading. What was he getting at?  
  
"But—" he stated, seeming to be steeling up his nerve.  
  
Here it came, Satine thought.  
  
"—I ask you to consider Christian's future happiness."  
  
She stared at him, unflinching.  
  
"His world revolves around you. You _are_ his world," Castleton corrected himself. "I know it sounds extreme, but you know and I know it's not."  
  
Satine began to frown, but still said nothing, knowing he would not finish until he had been heard out.  
  
"Think about it. Christian marries you, you have children, you build a life together . . . but inevitably, someone finds out who you were, and it may not matter to Christian, but I assure you, it will matter to them. Even the Americans you think are so crass about things," he stated bluntly.  
  
"He'll stick by you, through it all, but his family will disown him, his fickle friends will look down on him. What will you have left then, a handful of drunken artists and streetwalkers? Your children won't be able to look you in the face without seeing what their mother was, a woman who sold herself for money—"  
  
"Monsieur Castleton," Satine interjected, surprised to find herself trembling, though from anger or the sudden illness she had been experiencing, she didn't know. Her limbs seemed weak as she straightened to her full height despite herself, chin lifting defiantly.  
  
"Please leave," she said coolly, "and I will do you the courtesy of not telling Christian of this conversation, as it would only hurt him to know your feelings."  
  
Castleton rose and started to put on his hat again, but paused and lowered his hand back down.  
  
"I still ask that you consider what I've said. For Christian's sake," he stated, and she was sickened to see that he could honestly be so concerned over it.  
  
"Go," she demanded firmly, lifting a hand to point in the direction of the door.  
  
"Just—" she'd begun to say, _Just leave_, but words failed her as she was gripped by a sudden feeling of vertigo that made her sway on the spot.  
  
Castleton had begun to move toward the door, but paused and looked back at her, his brow furrowed in concern. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Just a bit—a bit—" _Dizzy_, she finished silently, as everything started to spin.  
  
The last thing she saw was the worried face of Alexander Castleton, before her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed backward onto the chaise lounge, too quickly for his attempts at catching her.  
  
Christian entered the room ten seconds later.

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Lyrics are "I Want to Spend My Lifetime Loving You," from _The Mask of Zorro_ soundtrack, by Tina Arena and Marc Anthony; and "The Sound of Music," which . . . is also credit to someone other than me, but I don't remember exactly who. Satine's quote is, albeit obviously, from _Romeo and Juliet_, by William Shakespeare, and while I figure most everyone knows that, I still wanted to give credit.  
  
My sincere thanks go out to Kassy (Moonlit Aria) and Anna (Arauka Pilininge), for beta reading this rather lengthy chapter. My apologies fall to the readers for cutting it off at a rather inopportune place, but it _was_ getting long, and I didn't want to hit the limit. Next chapter: Things take a turn for the worst, then the best, through a bit of trial and error; includes angst, betrayal, forgiveness, and—above all things—love.  



	14. All the Time in the World

**Chapter XIV**  
_All the Time in the World_

  
  
  


Satine awoke disoriented, distantly aware of the sound of someone's erratic breathing, and warm fingers clutching her hand. She returned the clasping with a gentle squeeze, then shifted to see Christian kneeling down at her side, his forehead pressed against their clasped hands. As she stirred, he looked up at her with wide eyes, and she realized he was crying.  
  
Turning onto her side, she reached out with her free hand to brush the tears away, and he rose to sit on the bed at her side, his eyes searching her face in frantic concern—and not a small bit of relief.  
  
"Satine?"  
  
"Christian—" she started, and began to rise, but he pushed her back down gently.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked.  
  
"I must have had a fainting spell," she replied, settling back into the pillows again.  
  
Any further questions were spared, however, as Dr. Morrow entered the bedroom and immediately crossed over to the bed, waving Christian aside. It took him a good few moments to get the younger man to actually leave the room, and more than one assurance that he would let him back in as soon as he was finished.  
  
Once the writer had been ousted from the room, Dr. Morrow set about his work of examining Satine, keeping a professional demeanor throughout. In all truths, it had troubled him to hear of her collapse, as it was all too common for consumptives to pass out due to lack of oxygen, but he was relieved to find that she seemed to be breathing perfectly fine, and no symptoms of her existing illness had reappeared.  
  
Satine, for her part, answered questions when she was asked, and followed directions as instructed, but otherwise made no conversation, nor did the doctor offer any. When he finished, she sat oddly calm on the side of the bed, wrapped in her dressing gown, waiting for Dr. Morrow to tell her whatever it was he had concluded.  
  
"Congratulations, Satine," he said, for the first time addressing her without formality, "you are going to be a mother."  
  
In return, she offered an owlish blink.  
  
"You are not very far along," he continued, and turned to the task of putting his instruments back in their bag. "I expect the baby to be due in November."  
  
Satine blinked again, still somewhat unable to comprehend the news—she was with child? She had mused over the idea, but not with true consideration . . . herself, raising a child, was something she'd rarely entertained as a serious thought, and she had always been lucky in avoiding becoming pregnant, while some of the other girls weren't granted the same good fortune. Perhaps somewhere in the back of her mind, she had decided herself incapable of having children.  
  
Love truly did do amazing things.  
  
"Now," Dr. Morrow stated, his tone going stern, "I expect you to get plenty of rest, and don't over exert yourself."  
  
"What about—" Satine bit down on her lower lip, a hand moving to cover her abdomen.  
  
"Your existing illness—what is left of it, but you have made quite a remarkable recovery—should not have a great affect on your pregnancy," he responded knowingly. "However, I do expect you to be careful . . . this is a very delicate time."  
  
She nodded slightly in return, thoughts wandering between worry and bliss.  
  
A baby . . . hers and Christian's . . . they had created a life together.  
  
_Your children won't be able to look you in the face without seeing what their mother was . . ._  
  
The words of Alexander Castleton echoed through her mind, but she banished them from her thoughts, focusing instead on the good in the situation. She cast her gaze back upward to the doctor, and gave a tentative smile.  
  
"I'd assume you want to tell Christian," he said.  
  
Satine nodded again, her smile becoming broader. "Thank you, Doctor."  
  
"It was my pleasure. Now, you may expect to be seeing more of me," he continued, fastening his bag shut and moving toward the door. "I'll stop in tomorrow to see how you're getting along. Don't worry about the dizziness—it should get better eventually."  
  
Then Dr. Morrow stepped from the room—and was immediately faced by an anxious-looking Christian.  
  
"Is Satine all right?"  
  
"She'll be just fine—better than fine, actually," the older man responded cryptically, a smile on his face. "Why don't you go see for yourself?"  
  
Without another word, Christian accepted this signal that he could go in to see her, and he disappeared through the bedroom door, leaving both Dr. Morrow and Alexander to let themselves out of the apartment.  
  
Satine idly fingered the sash that served as a belt for her robe, looking up as Christian came to enter the room. She waited until he had come over to sit beside her, then she turned and took his hands in her own, drawing in a breath.  
  
"Christian—I'm . . ." Trailing off, she lingered for a moment in consideration, then simply steeled herself and had out with it. "I'm going to have a baby."  
  
Several seconds stretched out between them in breathless silence, during which Satine's heart caught in her throat, almost worrying that Christian's reaction would be an adverse one. Really, why should she expect him to be happy over the news? A wife and a child, they were a lot of responsibility, and Christian—well, he was still young, and—  
  
"A baby?" he repeated, his eyes wide and face full of wonder.  
  
She nodded silently.  
  
"Oh, Satine . . ." He drew her into his arms and embraced her tightly—only to, a moment later, release her hastily and with a look of concern written on his face, as if afraid she might break. After a lingering moment, however, he shook his head, breaking out into a smile.  
  
"I'm going to be a father! You're going to be a mother—we—we're going to be _parents_!" He paused, laughing softly at the notion.  
  
At this reaction, Satine dissolved into tears, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his shoulder, her worry melting away—how could she have thought he wouldn't be happy?  
  
Unfortunately, Christian mistook this for the fact Satine _wasn't_ happy over the situation, and he awkwardly rubbed her back as her shoulders shook with little sobs, his brow knitting in confusion. "Satine? Do you—I mean, are you—don't you—"  
  
"Oh," she said softly, her words muffled against the material of his shirt. "I was so afraid you wouldn't be happy, and I—I just—_I'm_ so happy."  
  
  
  
In the shared joy of what their love had created, the two had settled into bed in a spooning position, Christian's arm over Satine's waist so that he could rest his hand on her stomach, and her hands covering his. He leaned over to press his lips to her cheek, then settled back again, a contented sigh escaping his lips.  
  
"A baby . . ." Christian had always been good with children; he had practically helped raise his sister Margaret in the absence of their mother, had sung her songs and told her stories. He could hardly believe now that he and Satine would have a child of their own, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her and their baby in his arms.  
  
"How long will it be?"  
  
"Dr. Morrow said November. That means, before we left Paris . . ." Satine mused, trailing off and allowing him to fill in the blanks, which he did, the memory bringing a smile to his face.  
  
"November—I don't think I can wait that long!" he complained after a moment, his eagerness lending an impatience to his tone that was almost childlike in itself.  
  
But Christian's mind was prone to straying from subject to subject, particularly when he was excited, and before Satine could respond, his train of thought had changed tracks again.  
  
"Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?"  
  
"It's a boy," she replied knowingly, gaze drifting lazily to the wall, where the afternoon sun played a show of dancing light and shadow. _How_ she knew it was a boy, one couldn't be certain—call it motherly intuition, but she simply . . . knew.  
  
"With your dark hair and beautiful blue eyes," she went on in a dreamy tone. "He'll be a famous writer just like his father, and sing songs that make people believe in true love, and—"  
  
"You're making me blush, darling," Christian interrupted, a grin quirking at the corners of his lips. "Besides, how do you know he'll look like me? He might have red hair, and . . . and he might even be a she!"  
  
"No, it's a boy," Satine said firmly. As far as she was concerned, there were no doubts about it.  
  
Deciding to concede the point at that, as really the only point behind his argument was to get the subject off himself, Christian fell silent again, before finding another question.  
  
"What shall we name him?"  
  
"Oh, Christian . . . we have months to decide."  
  
"You're right," he agreed, then propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at her lovingly.  
  
Satine turned to look up at him, and smiled as he began to sing.  
  
"_We have all the time in the world,  
Time enough for life to unfold  
All the precious things love has in store.  
We have all the love in the world,  
If that's all we have, you will find  
We need nothing more . . .  
  
Every step of the way will find us  
With the cares of the world far behind us . . .  
  
We have all the time in the world,  
Just for love,  
Nothing more, nothing less,  
Only love._"

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Lyrics are "We Have All the Time in the World," by Louis Armstrong, from _On Her Majesty's Secret Service_. I know the voices differ considerably, but use some imagination and it works. Thank you to all reviewers . . . and to Megan McGory, thank you for the note about Egyptians speaking both languages, though I mostly decided to have them speak English because Satine's the only one of them right now who's French. Big thanks to Moonlit Aria for beta reading this chapter, which was a bit difficult to get out, and actually _crying_ over it, which boosted my esteem quite a bit.  
  
Also, if anyone would like to be notified via e-mail when this story is updated (until I finally get around to buying myself a paid account for the benefit of author alerts), please leave a note in your review, or e-mail me at aiiesdelamour@aol.com and let me know.  



	15. A Turn for the Worst

**Chapter XV**  
_A Turn for the Worst_

  
  
  


Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and life took on a sort of languorous rhythm, so ensconced were Christian and Satine in their happiness and love for one another. As time passed, Alexander Castleton said nothing further of objection to Satine, though the two adopted a different manner of behavior around each other, interacting with cool civility. If Christian noticed the change, he said nothing—or, most likely, attributed it to the moody tendencies Satine was subject to in her delicate condition.  
  
Satine had quickly decided she did not like being pregnant; the sickness, the _size_, and the general difficulty she had getting around due to the aforementioned added weight. That was not to say she didn't like the idea of having a baby—she wanted it then, to cradle the infant in her arms and sing it lullabies.  
  
Of course, the physical act of _having_ the baby was another matter. The idea of childbirth made her nervous, and though Christian didn't say so, it made him nervous as well—as his own mother had died giving birth to his sister Margaret.  
  
Though Satine had never met Margaret in person, she felt she already knew her, as they had taken up correspondence through letters a few months before, a suggestion on Christian's part to give the restless Satine something to do. She thought Christian's sister was quite possibly the sweetest girl she had ever known, though the prim and properly written letters left something to be desired by way of figuring out her personality.  
  
A few weeks before, another young couple had moved in across the hall, and Satine had quickly struck up a friendship with Verona Paris, who, like her husband Joseph, was an Egyptologist. It also happened that the woman had a French father, her maiden name being Cartier, and that only made their kinship with one another more ideal.  
  
It was now September, and the remaining two or so months were looked upon with a sort of anxious anticipation. Verona and Joseph had joined them for dinner, but the men had gone back to the Parises' apartment so that Christian could no doubt ask Joseph further questions about ancient Egypt—or specifically, the royalty of it, as he seemed to have been struck with some sort of inspiration for a new story—leaving Satine and Verona to their own devices.  
  
Devices which, at that moment, were nothing more than simply tea and conversation, as it had been a rather warm afternoon, the like of which tended to leave one with a lack of inclination to do much of anything at all.  
  
"Have you picked out a name yet?" Verona asked, her lips curving up in an amused smile as she leaned back in the comfortable armchair and set her teacup aside.  
  
Satine and Christian's inability to choose a name for the baby had become quite the subject of humor and debate amongst the four, as it was narrowed down only by the fact she was convinced it was going to be a boy.  
  
Several names had been brought up, from the rather normal John and Peter, to Romeo or Othello. Joseph had suggested . . . well, Joseph, while Verona offered them ones like Nefer and Mehy, ever dedicated to her scholarly studies. Even one of the hotel attendants had given them his own opinion, stating that Abdul and Mohammed seemed like fine names to him. Or, failing that, perhaps Bob.  
  
"Actually, yes," Satine responded after a moment, prompting a look of surprise from the Egyptologist.  
  
"At last! We were beginning to think it would become as much a mystery as who built the Sphinx," she teased.  
  
"I know." Satine laughed softly, a hand moving to rest on the rounded curve of her abdomen in consideration. "I suggested Thomas, which is Christian's father's name, but Christian said no, then said we should name him after my father—so we decided on Olivier Thomas James."  
  
"A lovely name," Verona responded with a nod of approval.  
  
Satine nodded in return, then reached for her tea. "I can't wait until the baby's finally born."  
  
"It's not much longer."  
  
"No, it's not." She paused, smiling secretively at her friend, then went on, "Christian and I also finally set a date for our wedding."  
  
This piqued the scholar's attention, and she sat up in her chair, brows lifting in curiosity. "When?"  
  
"February fourteenth," Satine replied with a soft laugh. "A Valentine's Day wedding—a bit cliché, I know, but we wanted to wait until after the baby's born, and Christian should have finished his book by then—though he swears now that his next project will be a book of baby names . . . but he really is a hopeless romantic."  
  
"And I think it sounds positively romantic," Verona agreed sagely.  
  
Unlike many might have, she didn't find it in the least scandalous or inappropriate that Satine and Christian were having a baby without being married yet. What was important, in her eyes, was that they loved one another—and from what she could tell from their story, they hadn't exactly had the time or opportunity before to exchange formal vows. And, of course, as Verona and Joseph themselves had been married in a small outpost in the desert, clad in field clothing, it took quite a bit to raise their eyebrows on the subject of propriety, or the lack thereof.  
  
Their lazy sort of conversation continued on for a long while, until Satine finally succumbed to a yawn that was decidedly impolite, but she'd had to grow used to several impolite things over the past few months that were rather beyond her control. Verona noted the time and decided to get back home and allow Satine to rest, and assured her she'd send Christian back post haste.  
  
After the other woman was gone, Satine set about cleaning up their dishes, but was interrupted by a knock sounding on the door. Distracted in her task, she glanced up at the door, then called out a simple, "Come in."  
  
The door opened, and Alexander Castleton entered the room, sweeping off his hat. "Good evening, Miss Satine," he greeted her politely, but without emotion.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Castleton," she responded in kind, setting down the cup and saucer and turning to face him. "Christian's across the hall, if you need something—"  
  
"No," he cut her off, "I came to see you."  
  
Immediately, Satine felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, a sensation that was not caused by morning sickness or anything else of the like. Rather, it was recollection of what had occurred the last time he stopped in for a 'visit' such as this one.  
  
"It's growing late," she said briskly. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"  
  
"I think it's waited long enough," Castleton noted, closing the door behind himself with a soft click.  
  
An uncommon amount of anxiety creeping over her, Satine raised a brow and assumed the classic façade of detachment that she had used for so many people, though it was admittedly more difficult to look imposing now.  
  
"I've remained silent about this for months," he went on, stepping further inside and setting his hat aside on a table. "But really, I can't any longer. Christian is a very talented young man, with a very promising future . . ."  
  
She pressed her lips together into a stern line of disapproval at the man's words. "I don't believe Christian's future should be so much of your concern. Though," she added flatly, "I'm touched by your concern."  
  
"I don't think you understand," he said, shaking his head. "Christian could make me a lot of money—"  
  
Satine's eyes narrowed slightly; so that was it.  
  
"—and whenever I invest in something, I like to be sound. Nothing against you, of course, but I'm not a gambling man," Castleton continued, and he stalked closer toward her, waving a hand in the air in emphasis. "And you . . . you are a liability."  
  
"You have no right—" she started, but he cut her off angrily.  
  
"No, _you_ have no right to be manipulating him like this. Oh, I know your kind," he stated venomously. "You've snared him in your trap like a fly in a spider web, and now you're out for the kill. You're just seeing how much you can get out of him, how much you can use him."  
  
Now it was her turn to become outraged. "You know _nothing_ about what Christian and I—"  
  
"I see straight through what you're doing! All of this, the wedding, the baby . . . you're just doing it to keep him, because you're afraid he'll see you for what you really are—a common whore."  
  
Satine lifted a hand and slapped him angrily across the face.  
  
He stared at her in a brief moment of shock, but quickly enough recovered and shook his head furiously. "You cheap bitch, maybe if I had you, I'd figure out just what he sees that's worth giving up everything else!"  
  
She started past him, fully intent on leaving and finding Christian. Now, it didn't matter what she had decided about not telling him of Castleton's betrayal. It had gone entirely too far now, and she knew he only intended to use Christian as a means to achieve his own ends—but he stopped her with a viselike grip on her wrist.  
  
"Let go of me," she demanded in a hiss, and jerked her wrist in an attempt to free it, but his fingers only dug in more tightly, until she was certain there would be bruises left circling her arm.  
  
"You know he's not going to need you," Castleton went on, ignoring her protests and backing her toward the desk. He didn't even seem fully conscious of his movements, frenziedly ranting on, "He saved the prostitute from the underworld! What more use could he have for you than lust?"  
  
"Let . . . go . . ." she repeated, and drew in a breath with the intention of screaming, but he clamped a hand down over her mouth.  
  
"He's probably only staying with you now because of that bastard child! You're all alike, you're all—GAH!" His words ended in a shout as he drew his hand back, realizing that she had _bitten_ him.  
  
Satine took advantage of his distraction and wrenched her wrist free, then broke toward the door, but he intercepted her again, and her vision filled with stars as the back of his hand connected soundly with the side of her face. The force of the blow knocked her to the floor, and she landed upon the hardwood with a cry of pain.  
  
Her hand immediately found her abdomen in fearful concern. The baby . . .  
  
Then he had her by the wrist again and jerked her sharply up to her feet again, the abrupt motion causing her hair to fall loose from its chignon. Panicked sickness swept over her, and she was certain she would faint—then suddenly, he was wrenched away from her and it all stopped.  
  
Satine sank back to sit upon the floor, not trusting her legs to support her, and looked up to see that Christian had come back during the confrontation, and pulled Castleton off her, his expression contorted in the sort of rage she had never seen before.  
  
"What are you doing!?" Christian demanded of the other man, "Are you insane?"  
  
Castleton pulled away from Christian, his eyes narrowed in anger and his voice dripping venom. "I think you're the one who's insane. What kind of life do you think you can make with this pathetic _whore_?"  
  
That simple word, that simple five-letter insult was enough, and before any of them were even fully conscious of what was happening, Christian lunged forward and swung his fist at the other man, the blow landing against the American's face with a sharp cracking sound.  
  
Castleton stumbled back, with a look of utter disbelief, his nose pouring blood and obviously broken, then launched himself at Christian, where they landed on the floor in a tumble.  
  
"Christian! Stop!" Satine cried, clambering back to her feet, but both men were too outraged to listen to her protests.  
  
It was only a few seconds later, when Joseph and Verona came spilling into the room, that Joseph managed to pull them apart.  
  
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he questioned, staring at them both.  
  
Castleton said nothing, simply tore his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose, then he abruptly grabbed up his hat and hastened toward the door, before wheeling back around to face them.  
  
"I'll make you regret this," he said lowly, in a manner that suggested that was a promise rather than a threat, then he vanished out the door.  
  
"What was _that_ all about?" Joseph demanded then, helping Christian back to his feet and dusting him off.  
  
Christian had an angry bruise developing on his cheek, and was rumpled and disheveled from the fight, but seemed barely conscious of it as he ignored the question and rushed over to Satine. "Are you all right?"  
  
All she could do for a moment was nod numbly.  
  
Verona crossed the room and led Satine over to sit down on the couch. "Would some tea make you feel better?"  
  
Satine gave another nod in response, and Christian sat down beside her, drawing her into his arms. She leaned her head against his chest, and as Verona set about preparing the tea, Joseph again ventured to ask, "What happened?"  
  
After a few deep breaths, Satine finally seemed to find her voice, and out spilled the entire story, going back all the way to March when he first confronted her, until now, "And I'm sorry, Christian, I know I promised not to hide anything from you again, but I thought that would be the end of it, and . . ." Sometime during the relation of the tale, she had begun to cry, and at this she simply trailed off and quietly wiped the tears away, awaiting a reaction from the others, who had remained silent the whole time.  
  
Christian only held her more tightly, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. "What's important is that you're all right."  
  
"And I'd say," Joseph offered, "That you're better rid of that bastard."  
  
"Joseph," Verona chided, then she paused and agreed, "You're quite right."  
  
Satine nodded, but she couldn't help but think that his promise of making them regret it would not be in vain.

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: The Abdul, Mohammed, Bob thing was a cheap gag borrowed from _The Mummy_, one of my favorite movies, which I happened to have watched just a while ago. Verona, and by extension Joseph, are not mine—they belong to the ever-fabulous Anna (Arauka Pilininge), but were used with permission. The use of the name Margaret for Christian's sister was borrowed from the eloquent and wonderful drama-princess, and also used with her consent. Now, if only I could contact Baz Luhrmann and ask nicely about using his characters . . .

  



	16. Forgiveness

**Chapter XVI**  
_Forgiveness_

  
  
  


After Joseph and Verona went home, Christian and Satine went to bed with hardly a word spoken between them. Neither of them slept, however, and both were aware of the other's discontent, but they still couldn't seem to manage a way of bringing it back. As the sun rose and splayed shades of brilliant orange and gold across the ceiling, Christian rolled over onto his side to look at Satine, and saw that she had been staring at it as well.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said tentatively.  
  
Satine turned her head to look at him, brows furrowing in faint confusion. "For what?"  
  
Christian winced at the sight of the bruise that surrounded her left eye; the area was swollen and puffy, and the dark purple mark stood out in silent accusation. Even though he hadn't been the one to put it there, he thought he might as well have.  
  
"For . . ." he trailed off in frustration, and pushed himself up onto his elbow, gazing down at her with a pained expression. "Everything. I just want – I just want to take care of you, but instead I keep hurting you."  
  
Satine, alarmed by this train of thought he was having, pulled herself into a sitting position, propping pillows at her back. "Christian . . ."  
  
"No, Satine – I should have known better, I should have seen it before . . . Alexander, he had asked me about the story – about making Sarah a courtesan," he admitted, shaking his head slightly.  
  
Satine listened quietly as he spoke, and when he was finished she gave a slight shake of her head. "Christian, you can't blame yourself. It's not your fault. You had no way of knowing."  
  
He drew in a breath at the words that were meant to be comforting, but went on anyway. "I'm just – I'm worried I'm not . . . I'm worried that I'm a failure."  
  
"At what?" she asked, surprised.  
  
"At – at life . . . at making you happy –"  
  
She frowned and started to interrupt, but he continued before she could, confessing, "I'm afraid I'm going to be a failure at being a father, too."  
  
Satine sighed softly, then reached over to brush his hair back from his forehead. "Christian . . . come here, sit up."  
  
He obeyed, and she leaned up to look him straight in the eye as she spoke. "If there is one thing you certainly are not, it's a failure. You are the most talented, gifted, and loving people I know, and I feel blessed simply to know you. No one has ever made me happier, and you're going to be a wonderful husband and father. I know it."  
  
She paused, smiling at him, then asked in a lighter tone, "You wouldn't doubt my word, would you?"  
  
Christian sighed lightly, but with contentment, then leaned in and kissed her gently. "I love you, Satine."  
  
"I love you, too," she responded, and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.  
  
He settled back with his arms around her, but his expression again turned to one of worry as he again recalled the events of the evening before. It had all repeated itself in his head countless times over the night, and each time had been a little more troubling.  
  
Because he knew Alexander Castleton was a very determined man.  
  
  
  
As a result of the evening prior, that entire day was filled with tension – not between Christian and Satine themselves, but over anxiety of what was likely to happen. When a knock sounded at the door, Christian went to answer it, and Joseph practically burst into the room, with a long-suffering looking Verona at his heels.  
  
"Guess what I've found out," Joseph announced triumphantly.  
  
He got blank looks in response from Satine, who was sitting on the couch, and Christian, who moved to shut the door behind him.  
  
Verona glanced sidelong at her husband, and said ruefully, "Dr. Paris here has been doing detective work. By the way, good morning, Satine, Christian."  
  
"Oh, yeah, good morning," the aforementioned man said cheerfully.  
  
Curious as to just what could make the Egyptologist apparently turned investigator so excited, Christian crossed back over to sit beside Satine, a brow lifted in question. "What is it?"  
  
Verona coughed into her hand, and moved to sit down as well.  
  
"A method to the madness, so to speak," Joseph went on, perching on the arm of his wife's chair. "You see, I've been asking around about Mr. Castleton, and it turns out he has been married – and that his ex-wife left him for another man."  
  
The others blinked, so Verona clarified, "And my dear husband here thinks that is why he holds so much contempt toward Satine – not because of her in particular, or her past . . . occupation, as it were . . . but because of his own general distrust of women. The fact that she used to be a courtesan, well, that only adds to his reasoning."  
  
"Ah," Satine said, settling back into the couch cushions and leaning against Christian.  
  
"It certainly makes things a bit more clear," Christian allowed. "Though that still doesn't forgive what he did."  
  
"Oh, no, by all means not," Joseph said, shaking his head. "Striking a lady, much less one in Satine's – well – delicate condition."  
  
Verona grinned momentarily at the flush that seemed to be creeping up her husband's collar – after all the brash, risqué things he had said to her when they first met, here he was acting almost _genteel_ about the topic at hand – then she turned back to Christian and Satine and offered a nod of her own.  
  
"He definitely deserved to have his nose broken." She sniffed indignantly, then added, "The bloody bastard."  
  
"Verona!" Joseph exclaimed, but he grinned nevertheless at Verona's language. "Anyway, I –"  
  
Whatever he intended to say, however, was interrupted as someone knocked on the door.  
  
Christian shot a glance around at the others, then rose and moved to answer it.  
  
As expected, Alexander Castleton stood in the hallway, a bandage over his nose – confirming that it had indeed been broken – and a rather nasty bruise on his right temple from a blow Christian didn't even remember landing.  
  
He stared evenly at Christian, his brown eyes steady, and asked in a neutral tone, "May I come in?"  
  
For a moment, Christian allowed himself to entertain the notion of simply slamming the door in the man's face – he really didn't want him in his home, especially not after what he had done to Satine – but with a curt nod of his head, he stepped aside and opened the door wider in silent beckoning for the man to enter.  
  
Castleton stepped into the room, glancing about at the gathered individuals, and gave a slight nod of greeting, then focused his attention back on Christian. "Could we talk?"  
  
Taking the cue, Verona rose and cleared her throat a bit. "Satine, why don't you come back with Joseph and me – we have some artifacts from our latest dig you might like to see."  
  
Satine looked straight at the American publisher for a moment, then got to her feet and nodded to Verona. The three excused themselves from the room soon afterward, leaving Christian and Castleton alone, facing each other in silence.  
  
They looked a perfect picture of the scuffle they'd gotten into, at that, with Castleton's ruined nose and the bruise over Christian's cheekbone, though the former really looked the worse for wear.  
  
Christian paused, reluctantly contemplating the situation, then offered, "Have a seat."  
  
After they'd settled as comfortably as possible under the circumstances, Castleton spoke up again. "I'd like to apologize for my actions last night."  
  
"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to," Christian replied flatly.  
  
The other man flushed visibly, and Christian took some comfort in seeing that he had the good grace to look at least a bit embarrassed about it.  
  
"In any case, I am sorry. I forgive you for my nose . . . and I'd like to make amends," Castleton said, his tone somewhat strained.  
  
Christian said nothing, and so Castleton went on.  
  
"You're a talented writer, Christian, and I'd like to see you get published. In short, I don't see why this little incident should affect our professional relationship –"  
  
Christian offered him an incredulous stare for his trouble.  
  
"You don't see why, Alexander?" he interjected sharply. "After all those things you said to my fiancée, after you _hit_ her, after you endangered not only her, but my _child_, you expect to come here and act as if nothing's happened? I trusted you – and you betrayed what friendship we had. I can't just go back from that."  
  
Castleton shifted around in his chair, staring at the writer in return.  
  
"Christian," he said slowly, carefully, "You owe me. I got you out of jail, I paid off that Duke and got him out of your hair – you're here now because of me. I just want to do the right thing – can you really not find it in yourself to forgive me for one mistake?"  
  
Christian drew in a breath, gazing evenly at the American man. "I don't think I can trust you again," he said quietly. "I can forgive it, but I can't forget it, and I hope you'll understand that."  
  
"No, I don't understand it," Castleton said, looking disappointed. "But I hope _you_ understand something – I wasn't exaggerating when I said you owe me. I could ruin you. Don't forget, Christian – you signed a contract."  
  
"I did," he acknowledged with a nod. The words left him chagrined, because, plainly, they were truthful. Castleton did hold the power to ruin Christian. "And I'll hold to it – but you can't expect a friendship."  
  
"I suppose I can accept that," Castleton replied, getting to his feet. "I'm sorry it had to come down to this, Christian – and I do assure you that you needn't worry about any of it happening again."  
  
"I'm sorry things had to turn out this way as well," Christian agreed, rising as well.  
  
Castleton offered a hand, which after a moment Christian accepted and shook.  
  
"Well, then, I'll see you next week for your new pages."  
  
  
  
"They're quite lovely – what are they?"  
  
"Ushabtis. They're amulets of a sort that were placed in the tombs with the dead as guardians."  
  
"And these are authentic?"  
  
"Yes. Joseph and I generally don't like to remove things from the tombs – it's an issue with disturbing the dead – but another party had already been through ahead of us and retrieved the remains, so there wasn't much use in leaving the rest of it undisturbed."  
  
Christian poked his head through the open door of the Parises' second bedroom, which was used mostly as a study and a place to store the couple's various artifacts and texts. Getting no response to his knock upon the front door, he'd taken the liberty of letting himself into the apartment, and had followed the voices to that end of the hall.  
  
"Am I interrupting?" he asked, offering a small smile to the trio within the room.  
  
"Of course not," Verona responded, setting the artifact she'd been showing Satine back into the curio cabinet it had come out of, along with two more like it.  
  
"How'd it go?" Joseph questioned.  
  
"He apologized," Christian said, entering the room and moving over to Satine's side. "And . . . I forgave him."  
  
Then he went on to relate the entire tale to the three of them, explaining Castleton's apology, the details of the contract, and his reasoning behind forgiving the man for what he had done.  
  
For their part, Verona and Joseph blinked, while Satine seemed to accept this, simply turning to watch Christian with a concerned expression.  
  
"Well, that's all fine and noble," Joseph said slowly, "but what d'you mean, you forgave him?"  
  
"I forgave him," Christian repeated. "I know it's strange, but it's complicated, and – well, it just felt like the right thing to do."  
  
"I think it was the right thing," Verona offered encouragingly. "I mean, you don't want that hanging over you – it's best to just move on and let it go. I've never been a big believer in holding grudges – I think it comes back to haunt you if you do, and it only pulls you down."  
  
Satine smiled at Verona's words, then leaned up and kissed Christian lightly on the cheek. "Verona's right, darling. You made the right decision."  
  
And for the first time in a very long time, everything felt lighter again.

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Before I get any flames for having Christian forgive him, think about it – Christian is who he is, and all in all a rather kind person. Plus, I felt like drawing this out any further would be like beating a dead horse – I was getting depressed of the angst, so expect the rest of the story (which will not be much longer – I'm already at sixty-one pages!) to be happy fluff.  
  
This chapter is dedicated to Arauka Pilininge, for allowing me to use Verona and Joseph, and for being a loyal beta reader and best friend.

  



	17. Lullaby

**Chapter XVII**  
_Lullaby_

  
  
  


For the next two months or so, everything was quiet, and their days were filled simply with anticipation of the baby's arrival, letters from friends and family, and the company of their newfound friends. That late autumn afternoon, Christian was seated at his desk, a pencil tucked behind his ear as he went over a few last minute changes to his novel. The labor of love that was their story was almost complete, but as always, Satine's opinion mattered to him above anyone else's, and so whatever alterations it went through, he was certain to get her take on them first.

"I decided to change some of the dialogue between Colin and Sarah, in the last chapter, and –"

"– Oh."

"You don't think I should change it?" Christian looked up from the abundance of papers that were strewn across his desk – really, it was a wonder how he managed to sort one chapter from another, at that rate of seeming disorganization – to see Satine staring at a distant spot somewhere in front of her, rather than her attention being focused on their conversation as it had been.

"Satine?" he questioned.

She looked up at him with wide eyes, a hand on her stomach. "I think you'd better get the doctor."

  
  
What seemed like an eternity – but was in reality only a few hours – had crept by, and Christian continued to pace up and down the hardwood floor of the living room. Joseph and Verona had come to keep him company while the doctor and his nurse were in the bedroom with Satine – Christian had tried to join them, but had been quickly banished to the living room by an understanding, but firm Dr. Morrow – and sat there watching him with sympathetic gazes.

"Christian, why don't you sit down?" Joseph finally prompted. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor – and then where will Satine be, when you end up falling straight through the ceiling of old lady Maclaine's room?"

Verona slapped him lightly on the shoulder for his efforts, but after a moment agreed, "Joseph is right – about the pacing, anyway. Sit down, relax. I'm sure Satine will be fine."

"Ah, always the voice of reason, my dear Dr. Paris," her husband noted with a smile, leaning over to kiss her.

Verona, however, veered away from the affectionate gesture (causing it to land on her cheek instead of her lips), entirely too preoccupied for that at the moment – or, like always, just trying to play hard to get, even though they were married.

Christian absently obeyed the suggestion, in any case, and perched on the arm of one of the chairs, anxiously wringing his hands together.

"Why is it taking so long?" he burst out after a moment.

Though distantly amused by his worry, Verona remained completely sympathetic toward his plight as she smiled at him. "It's her first child – they're always supposed to take longer."

"Not that she'd know, since we don't have – ow!" Whatever else Joseph was intending to say (though, of course, it wouldn't be hard to fill in the blanks – unless you were terribly distracted, which Christian was indeed) was cut off by another slap from Verona, who then turned back to the father-to-be with a long-suffering expression on her face.

"She'll be just fine."

Offering a rather half-hearted nod in response to Verona's encouragement, Christian got to his feet again and resumed the pacing, finding that he needed somewhere to channel the nervous energy. The Parises, for their part, decided to allow him that – since it seemed like all attempts to get him to sit still would be rather futile anyway.

After thirty seconds, the frustrated question came again.

"Why is it taking so long?"

Verona laughed softly, idly toying with the links of the scarab bracelet she wore. "Christian, why don't you tell us a story? It will help take your mind off things. Not to mention," she added flatteringly, "I enjoy your writing quite a bit."

Joseph nodded his agreement, then added with a mischievous grin, "If you don't tell a story, I might have to regale you with tales of my escapades through Egypt with Jonathan Forrestal."

At this, he was rewarded with a groan from his wife. "Oh, no. Christian, _please_ do us all a favor, and stop Joseph while he's ahead."

Christian stared at the two in puzzlement, but finally moved back over to where they sat, though he remained on his feet. He always did his best storytelling that way.

"Well – our story's set in India . . ."

  
  
Verona's suggestion had been a clever one – Christian got caught up in his storytelling, and it helped distract him from his rather intense worry. As the tale wound to a close, the Parises rather enraptured despite the fact it had been an entirely random request on Verona's part, the door of the bedroom finally opened, and the doctor came out, looking tired, but accomplished.

"Congratulations, Christian – you're the father of a healthy baby boy."

Christian stared for a moment at Dr. Morrow, then beamed and broke for the door of the bedroom, stepping inside to see Satine sitting up on the bed with a blanketed bundle cradled in her arms. His heart skipped a beat as realization struck him – their baby.

Satine looked up at him and smiled, looking utterly exhausted, but proud.

"Come meet our son," she said, gently pulling the blanket's folds away as he moved over to perch on the side of the bed.

And Olivier Thomas James blinked open his blue-grey eyes and released a throaty cry.

"He has your lungs," Satine teased with a laugh.

"Hello, Olivier," Christian said, reaching to gently stroke the soft hair that covered the baby's head.

Satine had been right – not only about the baby being a boy, but that he looked remarkably like his father. Already in the tiny form she could see a little boy with unruly dark hair and a smile that lit up a room, exactly as she imagined Christian must have been as a child.

"Congratulations, darling," he whispered to her, leaning over to kiss her gently on the temple.

"Congratulations to you," she responded, glancing up at him. "It's hard to believe – we've created a life together."

Christian nodded, gazing down at the small form with a sense of awe. "I know."

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" Satine mused, sighing in contentment. Already, she loved this little life so much, and now she understood the bond between a parent and a child.

"Like his mother," Christian agreed.

"But he'll be talented like his father," she countered.

Olivier, for his part, began to cry again.

Satine laughed softly, and started to sing to soothe him.

"_I was waiting for so long,  
For a miracle to come.  
Everyone told me to be strong,  
Hold on, and don't shed a tear._

Through the darkness and good times,  
I knew I'd make it through.  
And the world thought I had it all,  
But I was waiting for you."

She glanced up at Christian, smiling, and went on.

"_When it was dark now there's light,  
Where there was pain now there's joy.  
Where there was weakness, I found my strength,  
All in the eyes of a boy._

Hush now, I see a light in your eyes.  
All in the eyes of a boy.

I can't believe I've been touched by an angel with love."

  
  
"How are we feeling today, _Maman_?" Christian asked, creeping up behind Satine's chair and leaning down to look over her shoulder at Olivier.

Satine crinkled her nose – more so in response to the term than the question – and cast her gaze sidelong toward Christian. "We're fine, _Papa_."

Christian paused, an eyebrow quirking, and conceded, "All right, we'll leave it to Olivier to call us by those names."

"Good," she answered primly, then returned her attention to the baby, who was slumbering rather peacefully in his mother's arms.

"You got a letter from Marie," Christian said, leaning up and walking around to show her the letter in question.

"I wrote to tell her about Olivier," she replied, then held out the baby to him.

Christian set the mail and newspaper down, then took Olivier in his arms and settled into the chair opposite hers.

Satine reached for the letter and opened it, then sat back reading. "Marie is doing well. She sends her congratulations – and Harold's, as well – and said she wants to see Olivier as soon as she can."

Christian smiled, gazing down at the baby. "You hear that, Olivier? You're becoming quite a celebrity."

And, in the celebrity interest of doing whatever one wishes, Olivier began to cry.

Satine laughed softly, folding the letter back up and setting it aside. "He's a bit cranky today, I think."

Nonplused by this, Christian made cooing noises in favor of calming the baby down.

Unfortunately, it didn't work, and Olivier continued to wail. Watching the two, Satine raised an eyebrow. "Why don't you try a lullaby?"

Accepting this as a perfectly valid suggestion, Christian began to sing.

"_Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight,  
With lilies o'er spread is baby's sweet bed.  
Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed . . ._

Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's delight,  
Bright angels beside my darling abide.  
Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed . . ."

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Lyrics are Celine Dion's "A New Day Has Come," used in parts . . . and "Brahm's Lullaby," which I'm not sure who it belongs to – I think over time maybe it's become a sort of folk thing. This chapter was a lot of fluff, but it's the 'baby chapter,' so I think it's forgivable. ;)

  



	18. Love Adagio

  


**Chapter XVIII**  
_Love Adagio_

  
  
  


Marriage. It was strange how one simple word could throw a group of people into such an uproar. Really, it was nothing to be afraid of – no, _of course_ it was nothing to be afraid of – so why, then, could Satine not stop her hands from shaking as she attempted to button her dress? Frustrated, she attempted to loop the same button a half dozen times unsuccessfully, until finally Verona took pity on her and stepped up to help finish fastening the dress.

"This is ridiculous of me," Satine stated, biting her lip. "Christian and I have been engaged for nearly a year – we have a _child_ – and here I am _trembling_ with nerves!"

Verona laughed softly as she completed her work. "It's nothing to be ashamed of – I was the same way before marrying Joseph, and we were together for ages before getting married, too. It's not exactly an easy thing to find a priest while out wandering in the middle of the Sahara, after all."

Satine smiled at the reassurance – still nervously, however – and began to arrange her hair. That, at least, seemed to be something she could do successfully on her own, and while she was preoccupied with the task, her friend stepped back to examine her.

"All right – let's go over the checklist. Something old?"

"Christian's mother's ring," Satine answered, casting her gaze to where the little heirloom ring was reflected in the mirror. "That counts, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Now – something new. I have that for you," Verona said, reaching for her handbag and digging something out.

Satine put a few finishing touches on her hair, then turned around. "Oh, you shouldn't have –"

"Don't be silly," Verona chided in return, handing the object to her. "Just think of it as an early wedding gift from me to you."

Satine accepted the proffered gift and turned it over in her palm, the sun glinting across it. It was a small brooch cast in silver, depicting an Egyptian woman with horns that were crowned by a moon. "It's lovely."

Verona smiled, pleased, and explained, "It's Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of love and fertility."

Satine pinned the brooch on, then smoothed her hands down the front of the white dress. It wasn't exactly the traditional style of wedding gowns; not made in the western fashion, it was instead styled to a more Egyptian flare, which was exotic and appropriate for the setting.

"Now what?" she asked, looking back to her matron of honor, who wore a dress of similar styling, though hers was a deep indigo shade, like the Egyptian sky at twilight.

"Something borrowed," Verona replied, ticking it off on a finger.

"Borrowed – I have the slippers," Satine noted, glancing down to where her feet peeked out from under the hem of the dress. Of course, it was only proper she had shoes to match the gown, and so the dainty sandal-like slippers had been loaned to her.

"All right, that just leaves . . . something blue."

Satine extended her right hand, showing a delicate silver bracelet with little blue stones that Christian had brought her back from the market one day. It was to mark Olivier's birth, he had told her, as his birthstone was sapphire.

"Then," Verona said, "I think you've got everything covered."

  
  
Marriage. Really, Christian had been waiting his entire life to fall in love, and to him that led to getting married and starting a family, so in all logic, this was his idyll. But that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be bloody nervous.

Because if it wasn't allowed, then he was shamelessly breaking the rules at the moment.

"Calm down, take a deep breath," Joseph said, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's just a little case of cold feet –"

"Oh, no," Christian corrected, "I'm not, you know, worried about marrying Satine . . . it's just . . . the actual – well, _marrying_."

"Well, don't worry. I'm sure you'll come through it stunningly."

"Maybe." He glanced sidelong at the Egyptologist for a moment, then turned his attention back to the mirror. The two had been banished back to Joseph and Verona's apartment while Satine was getting ready, and now stood in the Parises' bedroom.

"I'm just – nervous," Christian went on, fumbling at his tie. After succeeding only in getting it fashioned into a rather sizeable knot, he released it and tossed his hands up in the air in frustration.

"Really? I never would have guessed." Joseph chuckled lightly and unknotted the tie, then retied it until it looked the way it was _supposed_ to – Verona would have been proud, since before she'd left, she had tied his own for him – and stepped back, offering the writer an appraising glance.

"Well," he went on, "I think it's time to get you married."

  
  
It was a small wedding, set in a banquet hall on the ground floor of the hotel. Dr. Morrow had been asked the honor of giving Satine away, while his wife and two daughters were in attendance, Joseph and Verona acting as best man and matron of honor, respectively. Alexander Castleton was present with a rather attractive young woman, in a show of good faith, and, of course, Olivier was there as guest of honor, settled upon Mrs. Morrow's lap.

Presiding over the ceremony was a chaplain from the British Army, who went through the standard speech – when asked if any saw reason why the couple should not be wed, all was silent, and suitably so – before lowering the small prayer book in his hands and looking to Christian and Satine. "I understand you have your own vows for each other."

Christian inclined his head in a slight nod, reaching to take Satine's hands in his own. "Satine, no words or poetry could express the love I have for you – all my life, I dreamed of meeting that one person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with, and I have found that person in you. You are the most beautiful, talented, loving woman I have ever known . . ."

He paused, then began to sing.

"_Never knew I could feel like this,  
Like I've never seen the sky before.  
Want to vanish inside your kiss,  
Every day I love you more and more._"

Christian reached out to take her hands in his, before he continued,

"_Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?  
Telling me to give you everything!  
Seasons may change, winter to spring . . .  
But I love you, until the end of time._

Come what may,  
Come what may,  
I will love you  
Until my dying day . . ."

As Christian trailed off, Satine drew in a breath. "Christian, you are . . . everything I never even dreamed I could have. Never did I imagine that I could find someone as kind and caring, as open and loving . . . and giving, and selfless as you are . . ."

She paused, laughing softly at her overuse of description, then went on, "You are all I didn't even know I wanted. You have taught me what love is. You have made me _believe_ in love."

She smiled, and started to sing in return.

"_Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place,  
Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace.  
Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste,  
It all revolves around you . . ._

And there's no mountain too high, no river too wide,  
Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side!  
Storm clouds may gather, stars may collide,  
But I love you, until the end of time . . ."

Their voices merged together, and they continued to sing,

"_Come what may,  
Come what may,  
I will love you,  
Until my dying day . . ._"

The chaplain paused, glancing between the two rather disconcertedly as the words faded away, and he waited a beat to make absolutely certain they were finished, before asking, "May I have the rings?"

Joseph and Verona each handed him a golden band, and he went on, "The ring is a circle with no beginning and no end; it is a symbol of eternity, and your love for each other. In exchanging these rings with one another, you seal your bond of marriage."

In turn, Christian and Satine placed the rings on each other's fingers, then the chaplain reached to join their hands together. "Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

Pausing, the man turned to address everyone. "For as much as Christian and Satine have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving a ring, and by joining hands; I pronounce that they are man and wife.

"You may kiss the bride," he concluded with a flourish.

Christian smiled, and drew Satine into his arms, offering not the chaste peck that was typically seen after a wedding ceremony, but a long, passionate kiss, while their guests began to applaud.

  
  
At the reception following, the guests offered their congratulations and their gifts; from the Morrows, it was a rather cursory gift of a china tea set that was quite obviously chosen by Mrs. Morrow, while Joseph and Verona gave them a set of three silver cartouche pendants upon matching sterling chains, explaining that it was one each with the names of Christian, Satine, and Olivier.

Alexander Castleton, however, waited until everyone else had wandered away and the newlyweds stood alone, before approaching with a small, wrapped package in his hand. He offered them both a light smile. "Congratulations, Christian, Satine."

"Thank you, Alexander," Christian replied amiably, while Satine nodded her own thanks.

"I just wanted to give you this," Castleton went on, holding the package out to them.

"Oh, you didn't have to," Christian said with a slight shake of his head.

"No, I insist, really. Just open it," the American man responded, a cryptic smile appearing on his features.

Satine watched as Christian unwrapped the gift – which turned out to be a book. And not just any book, but –

"Oh," she whispered, gazing down at the cover, which bore the title, _A Story About Love, by Christian James_.

Christian laughed a bit in disbelief, opening the cover and flipping through the pages. Within the volume, surely enough, were the printed words he'd so carefully typed at his Underwood.

"Our story!" he exclaimed, and leaned over to kiss Satine, before he turned back to the publisher with a grin. "When did it get published?"

"That's just the first copy," Alexander noted. "The first one off the press, actually. It should make it into circulation by May, though. Congratulations, Christian – your first novel."

"Yes, darling," Satine agreed. "Congratulations."

"I couldn't have done it without you." Christian laughed softly, and turned the book around to show her the dedication page.

_For Satine, until the end of time._

  
  
  
  


_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Lyrics are "Come What May," written by David Baerwald, and obviously we know who sings it. ;) Chapter title inspired by Bond's song "Big Love Adagio" from the album _Shine_, which provided me with wonderful music to write to. The wedding ceremony was basically recalled from my memory at certain points, with the end proclamation found on the web somewhere. Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out, but I suffered a bit of writer's block.

  



	19. Horizons

  


**Chapter XIX**  
_Horizons_

  
  
  


"Good morning, wife," Christian greeted cheerfully, as had become customary of each day since their wedding – Satine often joked she thought he'd married her and promptly forgotten her name – walking into the apartment with a newspaper tucked under one arm and their mail in his hands.

"Good morning, husband," Satine responded lightly, from where she stood holding Olivier.

"You got another letter from Marie," he informed her, moving over to sit on the chaise. "Oh, and we've gotten something from Margaret."

"Really?" Satine leaned down to settle the baby into his bassinet, then she sat down alongside Christian, accepting the proffered missive from Montmartre.

"Mm," he murmured distractedly, already in the process of reading the letter from his sister.

She laughed softly and leaned over with a show of peeking at the letter, but soon enough sat back and went about opening her own. The tidings from Marie were as usual – the Moulin Rouge was doing well, Harold said 'hello,' she hoped the baby was doing well, and she couldn't wait to finally see him.

"Well," Christian finally said, folding the letter back up and placing it back in its envelope.

"Well?" Satine asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Margaret wants to meet you and Olivier – and," he said, pausing for a moment and lingering with a few seconds' hesitation. "And father wants to meet you, too."

Slightly taken aback at the idea of meeting Christian's family – well, had she thought she _wouldn't_ ever see them? – Satine stared at him in silence.

"He's invited us to come to London, according to Margaret," Christian went on. "He read my book, and said perhaps he was wrong about saying I had no future as a writer. She said she's been working on – softening him a bit in the past year . . ."

Softening him? As far as Satine knew, Christian's father was a hard man, who had disinherited his own son because he happened to have different aspirations for Christian's future than Christian himself had.

"Do you want to go back to England?" she asked, taking note of his discomforted expression. Sliding closer to him, she rested a hand against his arm, studying his face.

"I – don't know," he replied after a pause of consideration. "I do miss Margaret. And, I suppose, I miss Father, too," he added reluctantly.

"Then maybe it's time to go back," Satine said, fidgeting a bit with Marie's letter.

"What about you – do you want to – to go to England?" he asked hesitantly.

Did she? The thought of it made her absolutely nervous – the idea of meeting Christian's family; his prim and sheltered sister; his father who disapproved of the idea of him going to Montmartre in the first place, and spending the rest of his life with a can-can dancer from the Moulin Rouge?

How happy would he be to find out that was indeed the life Christian had found for himself?

Biting down on her lower lip, Satine gazed evenly at her hands, resting her eyes on the small diamond of the engagement ring, and the gold of her wedding band. She loved Christian – and his family was a part of him, no matter what feelings they might have held toward her.

"Yes," she said resolutely. "If you want to go back, I'll go with you."

Christian leaned to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close to him. "I love you, Satine."

"I love you, too," she responded, then trailed off and hesitated. "But what will your family think of me?"

"Oh, darling," he chided softly. "You and Margaret practically know each other now – I know she loves you already, and she'll love Olivier, too."

Satine paused, nodding slightly. "But what about your father?"

Christian remained silent for a moment, thinking about his words. "He'll love you, too," he said firmly. "He's really not as bad as he seems – he just takes a little warming up to. Really, he just hasn't been the same since Mum died . . . I wish you could have met her."

She sighed softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I wish I could have, too."

"Don't worry," he said, kissing her temple. "Everything will be fine. We have a new horizon in front of us, and it doesn't matter what we do, as long as we're together. Come what may, right?"

"Come what may," she agreed, then she turned to look up at him and began to sing.

"_Love took me by the hand,  
Love took me by surprise.  
Love led me to you,  
And love opened up my eyes . . ._"

Christian shifted so that they were snuggled together more securely, then his voice took over.

"_And every time I drift away,  
I lose myself in you.  
And now I see I can be me  
In everything I do . . ._"

He trailed off, and she returned,

"_All I've known, all I've done,  
All I've felt was leading to this.  
All I've known, all I've done,  
All I've found was leading to this._"

Then Christian went on again,

"_Wanna stay right here, till the end of time,  
Till the earth stops turning.  
Gonna love you till the seas run dry.  
I've found the one I've waited for . . ._"

Finally, their voices blended together, and they finished,

"_And I was drifting away  
Like a drop in the ocean,  
And now I've realized that  
Nothing has been as beautiful . . ._

As when I saw heaven's skies  
In your eyes, in your eyes."

The two leaned together and shared in a kiss, and when they broke apart, Christian whispered, "I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered back.

Olivier – quite apparently feeling excluded in this – chose that moment to release a rather passionate cry.

Satine moved to retrieve him from the bassinet, settling back down alongside Christian with the baby in her arms. "Oh, Olivier, Mama and Papa love _you_ very much."

Christian smiled, and leaned down to kiss the baby lightly on the forehead. Everything seemed picture perfect in this moment, and as Olivier began to settle and quiet again, Christian suggested, "How about I tell you a story?"

Satine laughed softly, quirking an eyebrow at her husband. "I'm not sure Olivier needs to hear _that_ kind of story, darling," she teased.

"It's just a harmless fairytale," Christian countered innocently, then he settled back and began to weave his tale.

"Once upon a time in a faraway land, a princess lived in a red windmill. Now, this princess was so beautiful that she was known as the Sparkling Diamond, and men came from far and wide to admire her beauty.

"Then, one day in another land even further away from where the princess lived, a handsome prince was being pressured by his father, the king. The king wanted his son to become king in his place, but the prince wanted nothing of it, so he left home with only the clothes on his back, a roll of parchment, and a quill, intent on becoming a bard.

"Back in the kingdom where the princess lived, her father, King Harold, had decided it was time that she married, and suitors began to line at the gates of the windmill with hopes of courting the princess – but she turned them all away!"

". . . Only to fall in love with the penniless bard," Satine finished, amused.

"And how does the story end?" Christian asked, turning to smile at her.

"Well, they go on to live happily ever after, for all time," she concluded.

"I couldn't have written it better myself."

  
  


The end.  
  
  
_____________________________

  
  
  


**Author's Note**: Lyrics are Michelle Branch's "Drop in the Ocean" and Lamb's "Gorecki." Thank you many, many times over to everyone who's read and reviewed. Now – is anyone up for a sequel? ;)

  



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